HE      ULTIMATE 


MOMENT 


BY    WILLIAM 

R,  •  LIGHTON 


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MAYBE    THE     LAST    TIME,      HE    SAID,    SOFTLY 


THE 

ULTIMATE    MOMENT 


BY 


WILLIAM    R.    LIGHTON 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

A.    I.    KELLER 


NEW     YORK      AND      LONDON 

HARPER       6r       BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS      *      MCMIII 


Copyright,  1903,  by  Harpkr  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1903. 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  FATHER 


M5iai53 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

'MAYBE    THE    LAST    TIME,'     HE    SAID,     SOFTLY"  Frontispiece 

"YES,       THERE'S       MY       OWN       DAUGHTER,'       HE 

ECHOED" Facing  p.   114 

"KEEP  it  up!      I  ain't  listenin""    ....  126 

'HIS   BIG   HAND   CAUGHT    BRONSON's    COLLAR"      .  154 

"OH,    PLEASE    TAKE    ME    AWAY  !' " 204 

'WITH  A  DESPAIRING  CRY  DAVID  THREW  HIMSELF 

DOWN    UPON    THE    WALL " 22° 

'WATSON     DID     NOT     ANSWER;     HE     ONLY     SAT    AS 

IF    STUNNED" 262 

"I     BELIEVE     YOU     LIE,'     HE     SAID,     WITH     SLOW 

EMPHASIS" 27° 


THE    ULTIMATE   MOMENT 


THE    ULTIMATE   MOMENT 


IT  was  mid  -  October  in  the  Elkhorn  valley  of 
Nebraska.  Through  the  long  summer  the 
round,  full  breasts  of  the  hills  had  faithfully 
suckled  a  big  family  of  crops;  but  now  the  ma- 
tured grain  had  gone  away  to  begin  its  own  ca- 
reer, leaving  the  mother-prairie  alone.  She  seem- 
ed to  feel  the  release  from  responsibility  without 
quite  knowing  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  to  sur- 
render it.  The  look  of  the  burden-bearer  was 
gone  from  her  face;  she  was  even  showing  some 
furtive  tokens  of  the  jocund  humors  of  a  belated 
youth,  such  as  patient  women  show  whose  first 
real  enjoyment  of  personal  freedom  comes  only 
after  the  long  cares  of  maternity.  She  was  rest- 
ing at  ease,  indolently  amusing  herself  with  a 
big  lapful  of  sunshine,  while  insisting  by  every 
means  in  her  power  that  she  had  not  lost 
strength  or  purpose.  She  was  ruled  by  a  de- 
sire that  may  not  be  reconciled  with  itself — 
the  desire  for  a  long  life  without  old  age. 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

From  appearances  none  would  have  cared  to 
say  that  her  vigor  was  gone.  She  had  come  to 
October,  as  one  comes  to  the  sweet  hours  of  even- 
ing after  a  weary  day,  with  spirit  rekindled  and 
eager.  The  sky  was  as  unfathomable  as  in  June, 
the  air  as  odorous  and  vital.  The  sun  had  lost 
the  heat  of  passionate  summer,  to  be  sure,  but 
the  loss  was  a  gain  in  cheer  and  comfort.  The 
cornfields  had  put  off  their  workaday  dress  of 
plain,  serviceable  green,  and  had  made  an  ex- 
quisite toilet  from  the  clinging  fabric  of  wild 
morning-glory  vines.  The  meadow -lands  that 
had  been  brown  and  dull  in  the  drought  of 
August  had  bloomed  afresh  after  the  Septem- 
ber rains,  and  were  thickly  flecked  with  purple 
and  golden  glory — asters  and  thoroughwort,  sen- 
sitive pea  and  golden -rod.  The  uplands  were 
treeless;  but  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  valley  the 
Elkhorn  wound  its  leisurely  way  among  heavy 
masses  of  elm,  cotton-wood,  and  box-elder,  whose 
leafage  showed  no  blight  of  frost  upon  its  lusty 
green.  Even  the  birds  seemed  confused  about 
the  season.  On  their  feeding  -  ground  in  the 
wheat  -  stubble  meadow  -  larks  and  goldfinches 
gurgled  and  choked  with  sheer  ecstasy;  a  flock 
of  jays  swung  through  the  high  air,  screaming  in 
a  madness  of  demoniac  delight;  the  melancholy 
crows,  who  dared  not  openly  affront  the  day 
with  their  grouchy  temper,  gorged  themselves 
in  silence.  Far  as  the  senses  could  reach,  the 
land  was  holding  carnival  of  joyous  abandon. 

2 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David  Boughton  had  been  hard  at  work  since 
early  dawn,  ploughing  in  the  "hill  eighty";  but 
now  the  last  furrow  was  turned,  and  he  let  the 
tired  horses  stand  for  a  time,  while  he  leaned 
against  the  plough-handles,  pushing  back  his  hat 
so  that  the  slow  south  wind  might  touch  his 
forehead,  wet  with  sweat.  As  he  stood  looking 
with  something  like  artistic  satisfaction  over  the 
freshly  turned,  black  surface  of  the  field,  and  then 
at  the  fair  breadth  of  prospect  beyond,  he  felt 
himself  a  part  of  the  day,  his  heart  and  mind 
firmly  linked  to  every  token  of  its  beauty.  At 
their  best  those  moments  come  only  to  the 
worker;  and  David  had  done  a  man's  day's 
work,  whose  tangible  result  lay  outspread  before 
him. 

A  quail  called  from  the  thicket  of  weeds  that 
grew  along  the  fence,  and  David  answered  with  a 
shrill,  imitative  whistle,  again  and  again,  until 
he  had  seduced  the  bird  into  a  response;  then, 
with  practised  lips,  he  took  a  broader  part  in 
the  riotous  symphony  that  swelled  around  him, 
whistling  with  the  larks,  the  bobolinks,  and  the 
finches;  but  at  the  clanging,  defiant  note  of  the 
jay.  he  stopped. 

"No,"  he  said,  aloud.  "I  know  how  you  feel, 
old  boy,  but  I'm  not  up  to  it  yet.  Maybe  I 
shall  be,  some  day."  He  settled  his  hat  more 
firmly,  giving  to  its  brim  an  impudent  upward 
tilt.  "  See  that,  Mr.  Jay?"  he  laughed.  "  That's 
the  way  /  feel.     I'm  just  as  good  a  man  as  you 

3 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

are,  even  if  I  can't  make  the  same  kind  of  a 
racket." 

After  a  moment  he  glanced  askance  at  the 
westering  sun.  "Half-past  four!"  he  said,  still 
aloud,  in  the  manner  of  one  long  used  to  soli- 
tary association  with  his  own  simple,  wholesome 
thoughts.  "Is  that  all?  I'll  bet  a  dollar  it's 
later  than  that.  I'm  hungry  as  a  hound  pup. 
I  reckon  there  won't  be  much  supper  to-night, 
either,  till  pretty  late." 

He  drove  the  team  to  the  rude  gate  in  the  field 
fence,  and  there  loosed  the  beasts  from  the  plough. 
As  he  struggled  with  the  clumsy  fastening  of  the 
gate,  he  paused,  as  though  upon  unexpected  im- 
pulse, and  his  face  was  sobered. 

"  Maybe  the  last  time,"  he  said,  softly.  He  set 
his  elbows  upon  the  gate-post,  his  chin  supported 
in  his  open  palms,  and  his  eyes  wandered  again, 
but  more  seriously  and  with  keener  perception, 
over  the  familiar  landscape.  Here  and  there 
other  workers  were  engaged  as  he  had  been,  and 
the  surface  of  the  prairie  was  checkered  with 
patches  of  new  earth — a  mammoth  board  laid  out 
ready  for  the  great  game  of  Industry.  At  wider 
intervals  lazy  clouds  of  blue  smoke  hung  above 
fields  of  burning  stubble,  melting  high  in  air  into 
a  mellow  haze.  Scores  of  sleek  cattle  were  dotted 
about  in  their  pastures,,  grazing.  In  the  shelter- 
ed nooks  among  the  hills  were  many  farm-yards, 
holding  big,  red  barns  and  small,  white  dwellings 
— homes  of  content  in  a  land  of  plenty.     It  was  a 

4 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

beautiful  picture,  and  David's  glance  clung  to  it 
fondly.  The  horses,  left  to  their  own  whims,  had 
strayed  far  before  he  aroused  himself  and  hurried 
to  overtake  them.  He  straightened  the  disar- 
ranged harness,  caught  the  trailing  lines  into  one 
firm  hand,  and  set  off  towards  the  barn- yard  that 
lay  a  half-mile  below  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley. 

His  soberer  mood  held  him  for  a  time.  "  Lord !' ' 
he  said,  quietly.  "It's  mighty  strange  how  a  man 
learns  to  love  one  particular  little  patch  of  dirt 
more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world  just  because 
he's  learned  to  call  it  home." 

But  there  is  an  irrepressible  buoyancy  in  the 
very  sorrows  of  robust,  red-blooded  youth.  In 
another  moment  his  blue  eyes  were  quickened, 
alert,  and  his  lips  surrendered  to  a  smile  as  he 
chirruped  to  the  horses,  urging  them  to  mend 
their  plodding  steps. 

"Hike,  there!"  he  called.  "Hike,  Jenny!  Joe! 
What  are  you  slouching  for?     Lift  your  feet!" 

For  himself,  he  moved  with  the  loose,  free, 
rolling  stride  of  the  man  whose  legs  are  used  to 
ploughed  ground.  He  was  tall,  with  the  yielding 
straightness  of  strong,  unconfined  muscles  whose 
every  fibre  was  alive.  His  head  was  firmly  set 
upon  a  stalwart,  sun-browned  neck,  and  was  held 
high,  as  though  to  allow  him  to  look  squarely  into 
the  face  of  things.  His  shoulders,  beneath  his 
loose-fitting  shirt  of  gray  flannel,  had  that  in- 
describable elastic  lift  which  gives  assurance  of 
virility.     His  whole  body  swung  in  lithe  harmony 

5 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

with  his  step.  That  gait  loses  its  fine  grace  upon 
the  harsh  pavements  of  a  city's  streets,  but  in  the 
fields,  its  birthplace,  it  is  the  perfection  of  human 
movement. 

"  Glory,  but  it's  a  great  day!"  he  cried,  and  his 
deep  lungs  sucked  greedily  at  the  rich  air.  A 
grasshopper  lifted  itself  with  a  rattle  of  wings 
from  the  matted  weeds  at  his  feet,  and  he  watched 
its  long,  easy  flight  with  genuine  sympathy.  A 
striped  snake,  roused  from  a  sun-bath,  moved 
indolently  out  of  his  path,  stopping  now  and  again 
to  poise  its  head  in  defiance  and  to  mock  with 
its  flickering,  scarlet  tongue.  Instinctively  David 
stooped  and  picked  up  a  clod  of  earth;  but  he 
checked  his  hand  with  a  little  gesture  of  re- 
nunciation. 

"  Not  to-day!  You  may  thank  your  stars,  you 
belly-crawler,  that  I'm  going  away.  I  couldn't 
kill  a  thing  on  the  place — the  last  day." 

He  passed  from  the  field  into  a  winding  lane 
formed  by  a  double  row  of  giant  cotton- woods, 
their  tops  interlocked  far  overhead,  and  presently 
he  came  to  the  barred  gate  of  the  pasture-lot.  A 
half-dozen  cows  stood  just  beyond  the  fence, 
waiting  for  the  bars  to  be  lowered,  and  a  queer 
little  old  man  was  puttering  over  this  easy  task, 
making  it  seem  vastly  hard. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Billy!"  David  called.  "Do  you 
let  your  cows  quit  work  this  time  o'  day?" 

The  other  paused  in  his  effort,  straightening 
the   stiff   kinks    from  his    bent  back,   wheezing 

6 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

under  the  distressful  aches  of  rheumatic  mus- 
cles. 

"Yep,"  he  answered,  shortly.  Then,  as  he 
found  a  comfortable  posture:  "  By  'Mighty,  young 
feller,  I'll  be  glad  when  you  git  away.  I  don't 
like  this  thing  of  choppin'  off  a  day's  work  right 
in  the  middle;  an'  seems  as  if  every  livin'  critter 
about  the  place  has  felt  free  to  loaf  this  last  two- 
three  days.  Why  don't  you  go,  if  you're  goin', 
an'  be  done  with  it?"  But  a  broad  grin  offset  the 
rigor  of  his  words,  and  his  glance  rested  kindly 
upon  the  sturdy  young  figure. 

David  let  down  the  bars  and  turned  the  cows 
into  the  lane,  then  stood  leaning  against  the 
fence,  finding  the  cool  shade  of  the  cotton- woods 
very  grateful. 

"How  you  feeling,  anyway,  Uncle  Billy?"  he 
asked. 

"Fine — fine!"  the  old  man  answered,  stoutly. 
"Feelin'  just  as  young  an'  hearty  as  I  ever  did. 
What's  the  sense  feelin'  any  other  way?" 

But,  despite  this  assurance,  he  was  plainly  much 
in  debt  to  age — a  well-dried  little  man,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  been  made  in  the  beginning  of  his 
life  out  of  indifferent  material,  full  of  knots  and 
tough  places.  His  body  was  weazened  and  mis- 
shapen, his  hands  gnarled,  his  shrunken  cheeks 
seamed  and  cross-seamed  and  stained  with  the  in- 
eradicable rust  of  years.  A  mantle  of  white  hair 
fell  about  his  shoulders,  and  beneath  his  chin  was 
a  thin  fringe  of  wiry  white  beard — as  though  the 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

skeleton  hand  of  Age  was  gripping  him  visibly 
by  the  throat.  He  limped  painfully,  resting  his 
light  weight  upon  a  crutch  which  his  own  hand 
had  fashioned  from  an  elm-branch.  Yet,  over 
all  this,  his  eyes  were  very  clear  and  lively  be- 
neath their  thatch  of  snowy  brows,  and  were  alight 
with  the  assurance  that  he  loved  life  with  un- 
diminished ardor. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  all  day,  Uncle 
Billy?"  David  asked,  laying  his  hand  almost 
caressingly  upon  the  bent  old  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  I  been  patchin'  up  the  hog  fence,"  the  old 
fellow  returned.  "When  there  ain't  nothin'  else 
to  do,  there's  always  that."  His  sunken  eyes 
sparkled  with  a  glint  of  humor.  "  I  reckon  you 
'ain't  learnt  yet  what  curious  critters  hogs  is. 
It  takes  till  a  man's  old  to  learn  that,  an'  then  he 
don't  know  it  all.  I  just  been  figurin'  it  out:  I 
fenced  in  that  hog  lot  twenty-two  year  ago  last 
May,  an'  I  been  spendin'  all  my  spare  time  on  it 
ever  since,  patchin'  it  up."  The  spark  of  humor 
flickered  into  a  smile.  "The  theory's  all  right. 
It's  plum  easy  to  build  a  hog -tight  fence;  but 
'tain't  no  manner  o'  use  tryin'  to  keep  the  hogs 
from  gettin'  through  it.     Ever  thought  about  how 

that  is?" 

David  laughed,  lightly,  easily,  with  the  reck- 
lessness of  one  who  draws  upon  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  good-humor.     "  Just  like  folks,  ain't  they, 

Uncle  Billy?" 

"  That's  a  true  word !     More  like  folks  than  any 
8 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

livin'  critters  there  is.  A  man  can  understand  a 
hog.  Nobody  knows  what  a  horse  or  a  cow  or  a 
hen  thinks ;  but  you  know  what  a  hog  thinks,  just 
from  lookin'  at  him.  He  thinks,  '  I  will  if  I  want 
to,  an'  if  I  don't  I  won't.'     Ain't  that  human?" 

"  That's  me,  to  the  life !"  David  returned.  "  I'm 
so  like,  I  reckon  I  ought  to  be  shut  up  in  the  lot 
with  'em,  oughtn't  I?" 

Uncle  Billy  made  an  inarticulate  sound  in  his 
throat.  "Time  you  been  down  to  Omaha  for  a 
spell,  you'll  think  a  hog  lot  ain't  such  a  bad 
place  as  it  might  be,  mebbe."  Then,  after  a 
moment,  his  quavering  voice  almost  querulous: 
"  Name  o'  sense,  Dave,  I  can't  make  out  why  you 
want  to  quit  us  here.  Seems  too  dummed  bad 
that  you  should  be  the  one  to  get  these  here  high- 
mighty  notions  about  goin'  up  to  town." 

"I'm  going  to  get  rich,"  said  David,  lightly 
parrying  the  old  man's  threat  of  oppressive 
seriousness.  "Just  think,  Uncle  Billy,  how  nice 
it  '11  be.  By  the  time  you  get  to  be  ninety  or  a 
hundred,  I'll  have  a  fat  old  wad  put  away  in  the 
bank,  and  then  you  can  quit  work." 

Uncle  Billy  worked  his  crutch  into  position 
beneath  his  arm,  gathering  his  poor  muscles  for 
action.  "  When  the  Lord  wants  me  to  quit  work 
He'll  strike  me  blind  an'  deef  an'  dumb,  an'  crip- 
ple both  my  legs,  and  knot  my  hands  up  so's  I 
can't  wiggle  my  fingers.  He  'ain't  done  none  o' 
them  things  yet ;  so  I  reckon  He  means  me  to  keep 
on  like  I  been  doin  .     I  m  willin'.     I've  always 

9 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

been  one  o'  the  workin'  kind.  To  hell  with  your 
wad!"  The  little  oath  was  so  earnest  that  it 
seemed  no  more  than  a  continuation  of  the  pious 
sentiment  that  had  gone  before.  He  stumped 
sturdily  down  the  lane,  David  keeping  at  his  side, 
and  presently  they  came  to  the  barn -yard — an 
acre  of  bare,  trampled  earth,  strewn  with  a  clean 
litter  of  straw  and  fodder.  In  the  middle  of  the 
yard  stood  one  of  those  vast  red  barns  that  dot  the 
grain-growing  West,  its  doors  yawning  wide,  upon 
a  cool,  sweet-scented  interior.  Around  it  were 
many  sheds,  bins,  and  cribs,  as  though  the  mother- 
structure  had  given  birth  to  a  numerous  brood  of 
young.  Within  was  fat  abundance;  racks,  mow, 
and  bins  bulged  to  the  point  of  bursting  overflow. 
As  David  drove  in  his  team,  a  dozen  six-weeks 
pigs,  black  and  plump  as  crickets,  that  were  feed- 
ing upon  the  spilled  grain,  scuttled  away  in  a 
squealing  chorus  of  alarm.  Every  nook  in  the 
great  building  was  alive  with  poultry,  gorged  to 
repletion,  yet  loath  to  leave  off  picking  at  the 
luscious  tidbits. 

David  stripped  off  the  harness  and  cared  for  the 
horses,  filling  the  feed-boxes  with  lavish  hand; 
then  stood  for  a  little  time,  looking  upon  the  fa- 
miliar scene,  listening  to  the  confusion  of  familiar 
sounds — the  chuttering  of  the  plethoric  hens,  the 
crunching  of  the  horses'  jaws,  the  comfortable 
swish  of  their  tails,  and  the  saucy  twittering  of 
myriad  sparrows  in  the  rafters  overhead.  It  was 
all  commonplace  enough,  but  he  felt  a  sudden  and 

10 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

strong  accession  of  fondness  for  its  every  par- 
ticular. 

In  the  yard  was  the  same  aspect  of  plenty  and 
content.  Close  against  the  barn  a  bevy  of  hens 
lay  prone,  nestled  into  hollows  they  had  fashioned 
in  the  warm  dust.  Pigeons  were  everywhere, 
clean,  trim,  full -breasted,  golden -eyed — aristo- 
crats of  the  air  come  down  to  levy  contribution. 
Around  the  windmill  tanks,  in  one  corner  of  the 
fence,  was  a  broad  puddle  made  by  overflow; 
and  there  were  pigs  and  ducks  taking  their  ease  in 
the  black  mud.  The  cows  were  gathered  around 
the  feed-racks  near  by,  pulling  at  their  fodder  and 
yielding  their  full  udders  to  the  hand  of  Uncle 
Billy. 

David  moved  to  the  old  man's  side.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  let  me  help  you  milk,  Uncle  Billy?" 
he  asked. 

The  old  fellow  turned  a  leering  face.  "Time 
you  come  back  again  you  won't  want  to  'sociate 
with  anything  so  common  as  a  milch-cow,  unless 
they  got  silk  fringe  to  their  ears  an'  gilt  tassels  to 
their  tails.  Git  out!  You  don't  know  how  to 
milk,  nohow.  You  run  along  an'  git  you  slicked 
up  for  the  party.  When  I  was  your  age,  it  used 
to  take  me  two-three  hours  to  git  me  fixed  out 
in  my  things,  when  I  knowed  my  girl  was  goin' 
to  look  at  me." 

The  allusion  brought  a  quick  flush  to  David's 
face;  but  he  was  not  abashed.  "Have  you  seen 
my  girl  to-day,  Uncle  Billy?"  he  asked. 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

The  old  man  clucked  his  tongue,  waggishly. 
"By  'Mighty!  You'll  need  to  put  on  all  the 
fixin's  you  got  in  your  bureau,  if  you're  goin' 
to  play  with  her.  Seen  her!  Have  I  seen  her? 
Well,  I  guess  so !  Seen  her  buggy-ridin'  with  a  fel- 
ler. She  cert'nly  was  havin'  a  good  time,  too.  I 
could  hear  her  laughin'  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  She 
cert'nly  has  got  a  good,  hearty  laugh,  Maggie  has." 

"Maggie!"  David  scoffed,  with  his  light  laugh. 
"I  wasn't  asking  about  Maggie  Ritter." 

"Oh-h!"  Uncle  Billy  chuckled.  "  I  thought  she 
was  the  one.  She  used  to  be,  the  last  time  I 
took  notice." 

"You  haven't  been  noticing  for  quite  a  while, 
then." 

"'Mighty!  'Ain't  I  got  enough  to  do,  without 
havin'  to  keep  track  o'  your  changes  o'  heart 
about  the  girls?  'Twould  take  all  a  man's  time 
to  do  that.  Git  along  with  you,  now.  These 
cattle  don't  like  to  have  children  around  'em 
milkin'-time.     Makes  'em  skittish." 

David  swung  towards  the  gate  that  opened 
from  the  barn-yard  into  the  garden-plot.  As  his 
hand  lay  upon  the  latch,  a  cracked  voice  called 
after  him : 

"Dave!  Oh,  Dave!"  Uncle  Billy  was  leaning 
sidewise  on  his  stool,  squinting  around  the  tail 
of  his  cow.  "Say,  if  you  was  to  happen  to  see 
that  girl  they  call  Ruth — you  know :  that  fat  girl, 
with  the  apple-face — you  tell  her  Uncle  Billy's  all 
right,  will  you?" 

12 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David's  shoulders  were  straightened  and  his 
eyes  eager. 

"  I  don't  know  any  fat  girl  with  an  apple-face," 
he  said.  "Is  she  here?"  But  the  old  man  had 
gone  into  eclipse  behind  his  cow. 


II 


THERE  was  a  new  zest  in  the  boy's  thoughts, 
a  new  light  in  his  eyes,  a  new  spring  in  his 
step,  as  he  hurried  down  the  path  towards  the 
house.  The  garden  had  yielded  its  fruits  long 
ago,  and  was  lying  in  a  fallow  tangle  of  wild 
growths,  which  spread  into  every  corner  and 
cranny.  A  thick  strand  of  bindweed,  reaching 
out  across  the  path,  caught  at  his  feet ;  a  luxuriant 
mass  of  foxtail  held  him  for  a  moment  by  the 
knees.  The  checks  made  him  curiously  im- 
patient, as  though  he  had  been  buttonholed  for 
a  tedious  argument. 

But  when  he  reached  the  broad  landing  before 
the  door  of  the  kitchen  he  hung  back  a  little, 
pulling  his  neckerchief  into  a  tidier  knot  and 
brushing  his  hand  over  his  tumbled  hair.  Then 
he  moved  to  the  open  doorway,  leaning  against 
the  frame  and  looking  eagerly  within. 

The  kitchen  was  a  wide,  low  -  ceiled  room, 
wholly  given  over  to  utility.  There  was  little 
attempt  at  adornment;  every  article  of  furniture 
was  of  the  plainest;  it  might  have  suggested 
emotional  poverty  but  for  the  unmistakable  air 
of  comfortable  plenty  that  pervaded  it.     The  big 

14 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

cooking-range  was  alive  with  a  roaring  wood  fire, 
and  self-importantly  excited,  its  top  covered  thick 
with  steaming  kettles  and  pots,  while  on  the 
hearth  and  pipe-shelf  were  many  pans  filled  with 
mysteries  wrought  in  dough,  ready  for  the  oven. 
The  room  seemed  to  swarm  with  delicious  odors 
that  vied  with  one  another  for  supremacy. 

A  woman  stood  leaning  over  the  work-table, 
her  back  towards  the  door.  In  every  contour 
of  her  figure  jollity  was  written  large.  She  had 
a  jolly,  round  breadth  of  hip  and  waist  and 
shoulder,  a  jolly,  full  outline  of  cheek  and  neck. 
Her  arms  were  bared,  disclosing  a  wealth  of  jolly 
dimples  about  the  plump  elbows.  Her  hair, 
streaked  somewhat  with  gray,  had  been  gathered 
into  a  tight  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head;  but 
from  the  mass  some  unruly  strands  had  escaped, 
making  a  row  of  jolly  little  curls  from  nape  to 
temples,  that  bobbed  about  in  a  jolly  flutter  as 
she  bent  briskly  to  her  work.  A  heart  toughened 
by  constitutional  misanthropy  must  have  felt  a 
thrill  of  warmth  in  that  presence.  David  re- 
garded her  for  a  time  in  smiling  silence. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said  at  last,  "seems  to  me 
you're  busy." 

She  turned  quickly,  showing  a  face  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  aspect  of  her  figure.  It  was  the 
face  of  an  elderly  woman,  to  be  sure,  lined  some- 
what by  years,  and  with  the  flesh  drooping  a 
little  about  cheeks  and  chin ;  yet  there  was  in  it  a 
fair  pledge  of  that  youth  which  does  not  succumb 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

to  time  alone.  Time  had  done  no  more  than  to 
ease  the  rigor  of  early  tension.  Her  lips  were  as 
full  and  red  as  those  of  a  girl ;  a  flush  of  rosy  color 
tinged  her  clear  skin;  her  gray  eyes  shone  with 
lambent  lights.  At  sight  of  David  she  smiled 
brightly,  and  her  voice  in  greeting  was  resonant 
and  full. 

"Is  that  you,  son?  I  didn't  hear  you  come 
up.     You  aren't  through  already,  are  you?" 

"That's  what  I  am,"  he  answered,  with  satis- 
faction. "  The  hill  eighty  is  ready  for  the  harrow. 
Oh,  I  can  hustle  when  I've  a  mind  to." 

While  he  talked  he  was  looking  furtively  around 
the  kitchen.  His  glance  came  to  rest  as  it  found 
what  it  sought  —  a  small,  jaunty  hat  of  gray 
straw,  with  a  gray  ribbon  and  a  scarlet  flower, 
flung  down  carelessly  upon  the  window-shelf.  He 
would  have  relished  a  glimpse  of  the  face  that 
pertained  to  the  hat;  but  that  would  come  in 
good  time.  The  suspense  was  not  unendurable — 
only  a  whetting  of  desire.  The  main  point  was 
settled  to  his  liking :  she  was  somewhere  near  by. 

"Are  you  hungry?"  his  mother  asked.  "I 
suppose  that  isn't  a  sensible  question,  though. 
Of  course  you  are.  You'd  better  get  you  a  little 
bite,  if  you  think  you  can't  wait  till  supper. 
There's  fresh  rusk  on  the  pantry  shelf,  and  a  dish 
of  apple-butter;  and  there's  a  pot  of  coffee  on  the 
back  of  the  stove.  That  '11  be  enough  to  take  the 
edge  off  your  appetite,  till  company  comes." 

He  set  out  his  simple  meal  upon  a  corner  of  the 
16 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

table,  and  ate  with  hearty  relish,  talking  between 
whiles  of  the  little  matters  of  home  interest. 

"  Wheat's  bound  to  do  well,  next  year,"  he  said. 
"The  ground  never  was  in  better  shape.  The 
crop  ought  to  run  ahead  of  any  we've  had  since 
I've  been  in  the  fields." 

"Yes?"  she  queried,  contentedly.  "Well,  that's 
good.  A  good  wheat  crop  is  what  makes  the 
world  go  round.  I've  thought  of  that,  many  a 
time,  when  I've  been  cooking.  We'd  have  a 
slim  supper  to-night  if  it  wasn't  for  wheat.  It's 
a  blessed  thing  the  Lord  sees  fit  to  give  us  what 
we  couldn't  get  along  without." 

"  We'd  sure  be  in  a  bad  fix  if  He  didn't,"  David 
laughed. 

"  Why,  yes.  And  yet  we  take  it  all  the  time, 
year  after  year,  just  as  if  it  wasn't  anything  of  a 
miracle.     Dear  knows,  we  don't  deserve  it." 

"Oh  yes,  we  do,"  David  said,  with  easy  con- 
fidence. "  If  we  do  the  work  that  makes  a  crop, 
we  deserve  it.  Sure!  We  deserve  every  grain 
we  get — more,  too,  counting  in  the  drought  years. 
If  you  count  the  droughts,  that  we  aren't  to  blame 
for,  doesn't  that  leave  Providence  in  debt  to  us?" 

If  there  was  heresy  in  the  argument,  his  mother 
gave  it  no  heed ;  she  was  concerned  just  then  with 
the  weightier  matter  of  taking  from  the  oven  a 
big  panful  of  custard-puffs.  She  set  one  upon 
David's  plate,  and,  as  he  dipped  his  spoon  into  its 
smooth,  golden  heart,  he,  too,  forgot  the  point  at 
issue. 

17 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"That's  good!"  he  sighed,  when  the  last  flaky- 
crumb  was  gone.  "  I  guess  I'll  be  able  to  hold 
out  a  while  now.  I  think  I'll  go  up  and  dress. 
Don't  worry  about  anything  else,  mother,  so 
you'll  be  all  tired  out.  You've  surely  got  enough 
cooked.     Can't  you  quit  for  a  while  now?" 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to,  just  as  soon  as  this  ham's 
ready  to  take  off  the  stove,  so  I  can  set  it  by  to 
cool.  I'll  slice  it  after  while.  That's  all  there  is 
left  to  do,  except  these  cookies  and  another  pan 
of  puffs.  Don't  you  fret  about  me.  I'm  not  a 
mite  tired." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  indecision;  then  he 
asked,  abruptly: 

"Where's  Ruth?" 

His  mother  righted  her  posture,  setting  her 
floury  hands  upon  her  hips  and  regarding  him 
with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Ruth!"  she  echoed.  "Ruth!  Well,  I'll  be 
blessed!"  She  broke  into  a  broad,  rolling  laugh, 
very  rich  and  pleasant  to  hear.  "'Where's 
Ruth?'"  she  bantered.  "Where  should  she  be, 
do  you  think,  but  up-stairs  in  front  of  the  looking- 
glass.  She  got  through  helping  me  an  hour  ago, 
and  I  sent  her  away  to  dress.  You  won't  see 
Ruth,  let  me  tell  you,  till  the  time  comes;  so  it's 
no  use  for  you  to  be  hanging  around  here." 

18 


Ill 


BEFORE  the  shadows  of  the  cotton  -  woods, 
creeping  hungrily  forward,  had  licked  up  the 
last  of  the  sunshine  that  lay  upon  the  broad  lawn, 
the  household  had  put  the  final  touches  to  its 
"company"  appearance,  and  was  awaiting  the 
first  of  its  guests.  In  the  simple-hearted  friend- 
liness of  a  country  neighborhood,  one  hour  is 
almost  as  good  as  another  for  even  the  most 
exacting  of  ceremonies.  Half -past  seven  found 
the  house  filled  with  a  score  of  young  people. 

It  was  a  democratic  gathering.  The  sons  and 
daughters  of  wealthy  farmers  met  on  a  perfect 
equality  of  rank  and  understanding  with  field- 
hands  and  dairy-maids.  No  one  was  embarrassed, 
because  no  one  stopped  to  think  of  artificial  gra- 
dations; social  worth  was  fixed  by  the  one  easy 
condition  of  youth,  and  that  primitive,  spontane- 
ous honesty  of  thought  and  motive  which  per- 
tains to  the  life  of  the  farm.  For  the  most  part 
these  boys  and  girls  had  grown  up  together  from 
their  first  years  of  innocence ;  and  in  growing  up 
they  had  not  grown  apart,  but  into  a  closer  and 
closer  intimacy.  In  heart  and  soul  they  were  still 
mostly  children ;  for  them  life  was  still  but  a  lim- 

19 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

pid  deep,  shot  through  and  through  with  golden 
light.  Their  minds  were  placid,  sweet-tempered, 
wrought  to  no  high,  grim  tension  by  struggles  for 
place  and  preferment;  on  every  face  were  tokens 
of  a  tranquil  freshness  of  spirit — a  clear  depth  in 
the  eyes,  a  ruddy  tone  in  the  cheeks — not  wholly 
due  to  the  mere  physical  effect  of  sun  and  air. 

Despite  their  e very-day  relationship,  there  was 
upon  them  now  an  air  of  bashful  diffidence.  The 
first  shyness  of  meeting  at  a  "party"  had  not 
yet  worn  away.  The  girls  were  gathered  by 
themselves  in  two  or  three  knots,  on  the  stairs  and 
in  the  hallway,  giggling,  whispering,  daring  one 
another  to  make  the  first  overture  to  the  boys. 
They  were  a  buxom  lot,  fresh-colored,  full-bosom- 
ed, running  over  with  animal  vitality  and  with  a 
frank,  inoffensive  vanity — the  sort  that  are  called 
"good"  girls;  at  once  satisfying  and  disappoint- 
ing— capable  of  much,  yet  contenting  themselves 
with  doing  very  little ;  intensely  human,  and  there- 
fore intensely  lovable. 

The  young  men  were  in  the  same  mood  of 
wistful  reluctance,  sitting  in  a  stiff  row  around  the 
walls  of  the  parlor,  perspiring,  uncomfortable, 
voiceless,  their  necks  clasped  in  unaccustomed 
bands  of  starched  linen,  their  deeply  tanned 
cheeks  making  a  strong  contrast  with  the  clear 
white  of  their  foreheads.  Theirs  was.  only  the 
awkwardness  of  being  out  of  place,  with  nothing 
to  fix  attention  upon.  Idleness  of  the  muscles 
meant  a  relaxing  of  the  mind,  a  drooping  of  the 

20 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

plumes  of  purpose.  Their  eyes  were  restless; 
their  hard,  red  hands  hung  open  between  their 
knees.  Seen  thus,  they  were  like  roughly  sketch- 
ed studies  of  men,  containing  all  a  man's  vital 
parts,  but  with  the  outlines  imperfectly  filled  in. 

David  came  in  from  the  barn,  where  he  had 
been  playing  a  hostly  part.  It  was  in  the  barn- 
yard that  he  had  received  most  of  his  guests. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  looking  about, 
his  eyes  dancing  with  appreciation  of  what  he  saw. 

"Come,  come!"  he  laughed.  "This  won't  do. 
Can't  you  make  it  go,  girls  ?     What's  the  trouble  ?' ' 

"It  ain't  our  fault,"  one  of  the  girls  declared. 
"If  they'd  rather  sit  in  there  and  crack  their 
knuckles  than  come  out  here  and  be  sociable,  we 
don't  care." 

"  I  think  they're  afraid,"  another  asserted  from 
the  shadows  of  the  stairway. 

"Who  said  that?"  David  questioned.  "Was 
that  Bess  Woodruff?  Where's  Dan?  Where's 
that  brother  of  mine  ?  Isn't  he  somewhere  about  ? 
Oh,  Dan!     Bess  says  you're  a  coward." 

"Why,  David  Boughton!"  she  protested.  "I 
never  said  any  such  thing.  You  story!  I  think 
you're  just  horrid!" 

"That  yearlin'!"  a  deep  voice  answered  from 
the  parlor.  "  If  she'll  come  where  I  am,  I'll  show 
her." 

"  Oh,  you  come  out  here!"  the  girl  called,  gayly. 
"You  don't  dast,  for  all  you're  so  brave." 

A  sturdy  figure  stepped  into  the  hall.  "  Where 
21 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

is  she?"  the  voice  menaced.  "Just  let  me  get 
hold  of  her!"  With  a  stifled  shriek,  half  dismay 
and  half  eager  anticipation,  the  girl  fled  up-stairs, 
the  man  at  her  heels,  the  company  following  in  a 
clamorous  chorus.  The  farther  end  of  the  hall 
was  in  darkness,  and  thither  the  chase  tended, 
ending  in  a  scream  and  a  scuffle. 

"I've  got  her!"  Dan  cried.  "Now,  you  little 
minx,  do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  to  you? 
A  coward,  am  I?  Bring  a  light,  Dave,  so  every- 
body can  see.  Hold  it  up  high.  Now,  Miss  Bess 
Woodruff,  you're  going  to  be  kissed,  right  before 
all  these  folks." 

"Dan  Boughton!"  she  shrilled.  "Don't  you 
dare !  Let  go  of  my  hands !  If  you  don't  let  go, 
I'll  slap  you!" 

"Oh,  you  will?"  he  taunted,  bringing  his  face 
close  to  hers.  "It's  no  use  fighting,  my  lady; 
you  might  just  as  well  stop  it,  and  pucker  up 
your  mouth." 

Struggling,  she  slipped  to  the  floor ;  but  he  raised 
her  to  her  feet,  pinioning  her  arms.  She  ducked 
her  head  against  his  breast;  but  he  passed  one 
powerful  arm  about  her,  holding  her  helpless, 
while  with  his  free  hand  he  turned  her  face  to  the 
light,  stooped  with  deliberation  and  laid  a  sound- 
ing kiss  upon  her  lips;  then  released  her,  breath- 
less, crimsoned,  dishevelled,  her  eyes  glowing,  as- 
suming an  air  of  mortal  offence — a  pretty  bit  of 
affectation  that  deceived  nobody.  There  was  a 
noisy  outbreak  of  shouts  and  laughter. 

22 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"My!"  David  cried.  "Isn't  there  some  girl 
that  wants  to  call  me  a  coward?"  The  ice  was 
broken  then,  and  the  evening's  pleasure  auspi- 
ciously begun. 

Still  David  was  not  quite  content.  Among  the 
bevy  of  rosy  beauties  he  looked  for  one  face — 
the  face  for  which  his  eyes  had  been  hungering 
since  he  came  from  the  field.  Ruth  was  not  there, 
and  in  her  absence  he  was  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  loss  and  denial.  Watching  his  chance,  he 
slipped  quietly  out  to  the  kitchen;  and  as  he 
pushed  open  the  door  his  thoughts  were  brought 
speedily  back  into  tune. 

With  his  mother,  busy  over  the  details  of  the 
supper,  was  a  girl  clad  in  a  gown  of  some  soft, 
pale-blue  stuff,  the  loose  sleeves  pushed  back,  a 
snowy  apron  hanging  from  her  neck  to  the  floor. 
But,  though  its  drapery  was  so  ample,  it  could  not 
hide  the  lines  of  her  splendid  young  figure  —  the 
wealth  of  her  breast,  the  rich  abundance  of  her 
arms  and  shoulders,  the  long,  sweeping  curves  of 
waist  and  hips.  She  was  tall,  almost  as  tall  as  he, 
yet  with  an  exquisite  symmetry  and  grace  that 
amounted  to  airy  lightness.  Upon  her  well-poised 
head  was  coiled  a  mass  of  brown  hair,  that  shim- 
mered in  the  lamplight  with  a  golden  lustre,  and 
caught  in  the  coils  was  a  bunch  of  late  violets. 

"Ruth!  Why,  Ruth!"  David  cried.  She  stood 
erect  above  her  work,  revealing  a  face  beautifully 
formed  on  a  fine,  free  model — a  face  whose  per- 
fection was  not  in  classic  lines  or  delicate  sculptur- 

23 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ing  of  features,  but  in  the  spiritual  sweetness  that 
shone  through,  making  mere  form  seem  wholly- 
secondary.  It  was  a  face  of  the  type  that  be- 
longs peculiarly  to  the  American  girl  of  composite 
lineage;  its  every  feature  was  eloquent  of  the 
survival  of  the  fittest  things  in  womanly  charm 
gathered  from  many  sources.  The  artist  has  been 
at  great  pains  to  establish  his  little  dicta  pre- 
scribing an  abstract  perfection  of  outline  and 
coloring,  but  now  and  then  a  living  face  will 
confront  him,  brilliant,  radiant,  setting  his  rules 
at  defiance,  and  sending  his  complaisance  into  a 
tottering  decline.  Such  a  face  was  Ruth  Mil- 
ford's,  from  the  tip  of  the  round,  firm  chin  to  the 
first  wave  of  hair  over  the  low,  white  forehead. 
She  looked  at  David  with  wide,  gray  eyes — eyes 
that  were  strangers  to  any  trick  of  art  or  artifice 
— and  her  smile  of  greeting  was  full  of  the  same 
lovable  assurance  of  innocence.  Hers  was  a 
wholesome,  sane,  serene  presence,  the  presence 
of  one  who  had  never  encountered  doubt  or  dis- 
may or  weakness — one  who  had  travelled  none 
but  the  fair,  green  paths  that  lead  to  the  attain- 
ment of  simple  and  pure  desires. 

"Well,  I  think  it's  time  you're  remembering 
your  manners,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  soft,  yet 
vibrant  and  vital.  "I've  been  here  since  two 
o'clock,  and  you  haven't  taken  any  more  notice 
of  me  than  if  I  were  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
moon.  And  I've  been  slaving  and  slaving  over 
your  old  supper  till  my  head's  whirling  with  it. 

24 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

1  Who  made  you?'  The  cook.  '  Of  what  are  you 
made?'  Victuals  and  drink.  'What's  the  chief 
end  of  man?'  Fried  chicken  and  ham  sandwiches 
and  doughnuts  and  pineapple  sherbet  and  pie  and 
sweet  cider — " 

Mrs.  Boughton  broke  in  with  her  jolly  laugh. 
"All  that's  enough  to  be  the  end  of  any  man,  in 
or  out  of  the  Catechism.  Has  everybody  come, 
David?" 

But  he  did  not  hear.  He  was  looking  at  Ruth. 
He  stepped  to  her  side,  where  she  bent  over  a  huge 
platter  filled  with  brown  bits  of  chicken,  and  his 
hand  covertly  sought  hers,  closing  firmly  upon  it. 

"  David !"  she  expostulated.  "  Let  go.  I  want 
to  put  that  necktie  straight  for  you.  You're  a 
very  untidy  person.  Come  over  here  to  the  light. 
Now,  hold  your  chin  up.  Up,  I  said.  That's  up, 
towards  the  ceiling." 

"  But  it  strains  my  eyes  to  look  at  you  that 
way,"  he  objected,  "  and  I'd  rather  wear  my  neck- 
tie crooked  all  the  rest  of  my  days  than  miss  one 
good,  square  look  at  you. ' '  And  his  chin  persisted 
in  rebellion  against  her  authority,  so  that  her 
task  took  a  long  time. 

"There,  that  will  do  now,"  she  said,  when  the 
bow  was  tied  to  her  liking.  "  Don't  you  know 
this  is  my  busy  day?  You  run  along  to  your 
play.  It  sounds  as  if  they  needed  some  one  to 
look  after  them  in  there." 

A  gale  of  laughter  and  noisy  applause  swept 
from  the  front  of  the  house.     David  reluctantly 

25 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

left  the  kitchen  and  returned  to  his  post,  where 
he  found  his  guests  deep  in  a  game  of  "clap  in 
and  clap  out."  Other  amusements  of  that  hardy- 
old  school  followed,  and  then  succeeded  a  round 
of  conundrums  loaded  with  light  charges  of  ar- 
chaic humor — a  gauzy  amusement,  but  doing  am- 
ple service  in  a  company  that  was  bound  to  be 
merry. 

Uncle  Billy  came  in  from  his  last  chores  while 
this  sport  was  at  its  height.  He  was  in  stocking 
feet,  carrying  his  shoes  in  his  hand.  At  the  foot 
of  the  stairway  he  paused  for  a  little  time,  lis- 
tening. 

"Lord!"  he  interjected,  presently.  "Some  o' 
them  jokes  was  nigh  dead  of  old  age  when  I  had 
my  first  breeches  on.  Why  don't  you  let  'em 
have  their  rest?  It's  too  much  like  grave-robbin' 
to  be  diggin'  'em  up.  Git  some  new  ones,  why 
can't  you?  I'll  tell  you  one,  bran' -new.  I  made 
it  myself  yeste'day  mornin'  at  breakfast.  It's  a 
good  one,  too.  Now  you  boys  keep  still  while  I 
ask  it,  an'  don't  tell  'em  what  the  answer  is.  This 
is  it :  If  a  piece  of  boiled  wienerwurst — what  they 
give  you  with  cabbage  down  to  the  hotel  at 
Waterloo — if  one  o'  them  wienerwursts  could  talk, 
what  'd  be  the  first  thing  it  'd  say?  You  ain't 
never  goin'  to  guess  that  one.  Don't  you  tell  'em 
the  gag,  boys;  that  wouldn't  be  fair." 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  company.  Uncle  Billy 
limped  slowly  up  the  stairs,  holding  to  the 
balustrade,  grinning  over  his  shoulder.     "  Better 

26 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

give  it  up,"  he  challenged.  "The'  ain't  brains 
enough  in  the  whole  crowd  to  guess  it.  This  is 
what  it  'd  say :  It  'd  say,  '  Bow-wow !'  " 

He  had  his  reward.  An  applauding  outcry 
went  up  from  the  general  throat,  and  he  collapsed 
upon  the  landing  exulting  over  his  easy  victory. 
When  he  sought  to  rise  the  effort  was  ineffectual . 

"You'll  have  to  come  an'  gim  me  a  lift,  Dave," 
he  called ;  and,  leaning  his  weight  upon  the  strong, 
young  arm,  he  gained  the  upper  hallway  and  went 
to  his  room. 

"I'll  help  you  off  with  your  clothes,  Uncle 
Billy,"  David  volunteered.  "  You  must  be  pretty 
well  tired  out  with  the  extra  work  to-night.  But 
I  wish  you'd  felt  like  staying  up  a  while,  till 
supper's  ready." 

"Nope,"  the  old  fellow  returned.  "Bed's  a 
pretty  good  place  after  sundown.  I  had  some 
supper,  though.  That  girl  Ruth  looked  after  me 
in  the  kitchen."  He  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment 
on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  his  eyes  ruminant.  "I 
don't  blame  you  a  mite,  Dave,  for  settin'  a  heap 
by  her.  She's  as  fine  as  they  make  'em;  they 
don't  git  none  finer  nowhere.  Think  o'  her  goin' 
down  on  her  knees  on  the  kitchen  floor  in  her 
party  dress  an'  takin'  off  a  crippled  old  hired 
man's  shoes  for  him!  That's  what  she  done. 
She's  a  lady;  that's  what  she  is.  Now,  you  go 
along,  boy.  I'll  take  care  o'  myself  the  rest,  if 
you'll  just  blow  out  the  light  for  me.  Good- 
night.    Enjoy  yourself." 

27 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Then  came  the  supper — a  riot  of  good  feeling. 
The  dining-room — wide,  cheery,  hospitable — was 
massed  with  foliage  and  flowers  from  garden, 
woodland,  and  meadow.  A  dozen  paper  lanterns 
swung  on  strings  from  the  low  ceiling,  and  be- 
neath was  the  table,  bowed  under  a  surfeit  of  all 
that  country  cookery  could  accomplish.  The  hale 
appetites  of  the  young  folks  set  willingly  to  the 
hopeless  task  of  disposing  of  the  good  things, 
eating  until  stayed  by  complete  satiety. 

After  the  supper  the  company  gathered  once 
again  in  hall  and  parlor,  and  made  a  pretence  of 
resuming  the  earlier  gayety ;  but  the  springy  alert- 
ness of  mind  and  limb  was  abated  for  a  time, 
giving  place  to  drowsy  content.  Speech  went  on 
somewhat,  but  only  fitfully,  with  long  intervals 
of  silence.  The  night  was  of  summery  warmth, 
and  the  doors  and  windows  stood  open,  admitting 
the  sweet  air.  A  belated  whippoorwill  called  in- 
sistently from  the  grove  by  the  river;  a  little 
brown  owl  hooted  in  the  boughs  of  a  door-yard 
elm ;  myriad  insects  hummed  and  chirped  in  the 
matted  blue-grass  under  the  nearer  trees.  David 
sat  by  a  window,  listening,  his  thoughts  suffused 
with  tender  satisfaction.  He  would  soon  say 
good-bye  to  all  this,  and  he  was  suddenly  real- 
izing how  clean  and  gracious  his  life  at  home  had 
been. 

By-and-by  one  of  the  girls  disturbed  the  quiet 
with  a  cry: 

"Why,  there's  Mr.   Keller!     Why  didn't  you 
28 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

come  sooner?     You've  missed  all  the  good  things 
to  eat." 

The  new  -  comer  had  approached  quietly  and 
stood  leaning  against  a  porch  column,  where  the 
glow  of  the  lamps  threw  his  figure  into  relief 
against  the  black  background  of  the  night.  In 
face  and  form  he  offered  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
dominant  type  in  the  company.  He  was  above 
middle  height,  but  slender ;  sinewy  rather  than 
muscular.  A  thick,  curling,  brown  beard  covered 
his  cheeks  and  chin,  giving  him  an  air  of  vigorous 
maturity,  though  he  was  hardly  past  the  age  of 
thirty-five.  His  eyes,  brown  and  clear,  held  an 
odd,  whimsical  expression,  as  though  he  was  ac- 
customed to  looking  on  at  life  from  outside  the 
procession  and  got  much  quiet  enjoyment  out 
of  the  spectacle.  His  dress,  too,  set  him  apart ; 
it  was  modest  yet  modish,  and  was  worn  with  an 
air  of  distinction  that  hardly  pertained  to  the  life 
of  that  simple  neighborhood. 

David  stepped  out  quickly  to  greet  him,  grasp- 
ing his  hand  heartily. 

"  Is  it  really  you,  Joe?  I'm  mighty  glad  you've 
come.  I  was  afraid  you'd  forgotten,  or  made  up 
your  mind  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while.  Come  in. 
Don't  let  these  folks  discourage  you;  I'll  get  you 
some  supper." 

The  other  held  his  response  in  abeyance  for  a 
little  while,  holding  David's  hand  in  his  with  a 
detaining  pressure,  his  glance  lingering  upon  the 
happy  young  face. 

29 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  think  I'll  not  go  in.  I'm 
smoking,  and,  besides,  I  have  only  a  few  minutes 
to  stay.  I  don't  care  for  anything  to  eat.  Can't 
you  come  outside  with  me?  I  must  get  back  to 
my  work  pretty  soon,  but  I  want  to  talk  to  you  a 
bit.  I  sha'n't  keep  you  long  away  from  your 
guests." 

David  called  to  those  in  the  house:  "Go  on 
with  your  fun;  I'll  be  back  again  right  away." 
Then  with  his  friend  he  descended  the  steps,  and 
they  walked  through  the  shadows  to  the  roadway 
beyond.  There  Keller  leaped  lightly  to  a  seat 
upon  one  of  the  flat  -  topped  gate  -  posts,  while 
David  stood  near  by,  resting  his  arms  upon  the 
fence,  waiting  for  the  tide  of  speech  to  flow. 


IV 


ALTHOUGH  Keller  had  said  that  time  was 
i\  pressing,  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  speak. 
He  knocked  the  dottle  from  his  pipe,  filled  it 
afresh,  and  sat  for  a  time  calmly  smoking.  When 
words  came  by-and-by  they  were  directed  to  no 
practical  point. 

"If  it  weren't  for  night-time  we'd  all  go  into 
spiritual  bankruptcy.  A  look  at  a  sky  full  of 
stars  is  the  best  of  all  ways  for  renewing  the  soul's 
youth." 

David's  native  tendency  to  laugh  asserted  it- 
self, but  the  laugh  died  quickly  away.  "Yes, 
Joe,  I  know.  No  wonder  you  poets  like  the 
night-time;  it's  good  raw  material  for  the  best 
kind  of  poetry ;  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  write  it. 
Sometimes,  on  nights  like  this,  I've  felt  fit  to  make 
some  of  the  finest  stuff  that  ever  was  sent  through 
the  mails,  but  then,  when  I  sit  down  beside  a  lamp 
and  try  to  do  it,  it's  no  go.  I  reckon  that's  most 
of  the  difference  between  a  real  genius  and  the 
rest  of  folks — the  genius  can  stand  the  test  of 
kerosene." 

Keller  suffered  the  remark  to  pass.  He  had 
mental  occupation  enough  in  puffing  comfortably 

3i 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

at  his  pipe  and  in  following  the  lazy  smoke- 
clouds  as  they  drifted  away  upon  the  slow  air. 

"I  remember  one  summer  night,  six  years 
ago,"  he  said,  presently,  "when  I  came  to  tell 
you  good-bye  before  you  went  to  the  university. 
I  sat  on  this  very  post  then,  and  we  had  a  long 
talk  about  things.     You  haven't  forgotten?" 

"No,  I  haven't  forgotten,"  David  answered, 
slowly,  his  memory  busy.  An  interval  of  medi- 
tation followed  upon  that.  They  had  long  since 
got  out  of  the  way  of  hurrying  each  other  in 
these  times  of  intercourse.  When  a  word  was 
ready  it  would  come;  and  they  understood  and 
knew  how  to  use  the  silences.  Often  their  talk 
would  have  appeared  to  an  outsider  as  piece- 
meal, without  sequence  or  order,  but  for  them  it 
was  held  together  by  what  they  were  able  to  take 
for  granted. 

"So  you're  going  to  try  the  law,"  Keller  re- 
marked, finally.  "  Well,  you  know  I  wish  you  well, 
David;  but  I  can't  say  I  congratulate  you.  It's 
pleasant  to  think  of  seeing  something  of  the  other 
side  of  life,  but  this  is  the  best  side.  I  know  what 
will  happen  to  you:  you'll  lose  a  lot  of  happy 
illusions." 

"  But  I'm  not  a  child  any  longer  to  be  amused 
with  illusions,"  David  suggested.  "I'm  twenty- 
six  years  old.  I  think  I'm  entitled  to  call  myself 
a  man.  If  they  are  illusions,  isn't  it  better  that 
I  should  give  them  up?" 

"  That  would  be  good  argument,"  Keller  agreed, 

32 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"if  you  were  sure  of  getting  hold  of  realities  in 
their  stead.  But  what  you'll  get  will  be  only 
another  lot  of  illusions,  less  lovely  than  these. 
It  seems  to  me  that  you're  risking  a  great  deal 
more  than  you  can  afford  to  lose." 

There  was  another  silence.  "  Joe,"  David  said, 
abruptly,  "I've  wondered  a  hundred  times  what 
it  is  that  keeps  you  here.  It  isn't  necessity; 
you've  never  known  the  meaning  of  that  word 
as  the  rest  of  us  know  it  —  money  -  necessity, 
I  mean.  You've  got  money  to  feed  to  the 
birds." 

"More  than  they  could  possibly  eat  with  com- 
fort," Keller  assented.     "It's  indigestible  stuff." 

"Yes.  And  you  have  a  name  as  a  poet — a 
name  that  people  are  passing  around  the  dinner- 
tables  back  East.  I  should  think  you'd  want 
to  be  where  they're  interested  in  you.  Who 
knows  anything  about  your  work  here?  They 
know  you  write  poetry,  and  they  feel  sorry  for 
you;  that's  about  the  amount  of  it.  I've  been 
expecting  for  years  that  you'd  go  where  you  can 
be  tasting  your  fame." 

Keller  waited  in  his  turn,  drumming  with  his 
heels  upon  the  post,  and  whistling  softly.  "  No," 
he  said,  "I  don't  care  what  folks  say  about  me; 
I  don't  want  to  hear  it.  It's  the  work  only  that  I 
want.  I'm  one  of  the  blessed,  Dave,  because  I've 
found  my  place  and  my  work.  Nothing  could 
tempt  me  away  from  here." 

David  stood  erect,  gathering  himself  for  argu- 
3  33 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ment.     "Then  it's  just  because  you're  contented 
that  you  stay  here?" 

"Just  because  I'm  wholly,  absolutely,  perfectly 
contented.  Don't  you  think  that's  a  pretty  good 
reason?" 

"  No,"  David  answered,  stoutly.  "  If  it  is,  then 
I'm  all  wrong,  for  that's  exactly  the  reason  why 
I'm  going  away.  I'm  afraid  to  stay.  I  don't 
want  to  be  contented  with  this." 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  because  I'm  above  it,  or  anything 
of  that  sort.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  think  I'm 
too  good  for  farming.  But  I  want  to  try  myself. 
I  want  a  bigger,  freer  field  for  a  while,  so  that  I 
can  find  out  what  my  man's  strength  is.  You 
know  what  I  mean." 

"Oh  yes;  I  know  what  you  mean.  And  what 
/  mean  is  that  this  is  field  enough  for  any  man 
who  isn't  insane  with  the  silly  forms  of  ambition, 
such  as  you've  been  expecting  me  to  show — am- 
bition to  make  a  stir  in  the  world  and  to  hear 
folks  screaming  about  it.  You'll  never  find  a 
better  place  than  this  for  showing  your  man's 
strength,  if  that's  really  all  you  want." 

"It's  a  dead  level,  this  life  here,"  David  con- 
tended. 

"Yes,  it's  a  dead  level  of  peace  and  goodness 
and  health  and  all  the  conditions  that  go  to  make 
up  human  happiness.  What  do  you  expect  to  get 
that  will  better  it?" 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,  Joe.     I'm  not  dis- 
34 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

satisfied  with  what  this  life  gives  me.  The  trouble 
is  that  it  gives  me  too  much.  I'd  like  to  do  more 
to  earn  what  I  get.  I  can  plough  and  plant  and 
reap,  and  do  it  all  honestly,  but,  after  all,  the 
harvest  is  really  none  of  my  making.  It's  clear 
outside  of  me,  almost  like  an  outright  gratuity. 
I  want  to  take  hold  of  something  with  my  own 
powers  and  beat  it  into  shape  without  any  help 
at  all,  so  that  by-and-by  I  can  enjoy  one  supreme 
and  ultimate  moment  of  personal  victory.  Don't 
you  see?  Can't  you  understand  what  that  feeling 
is?" 

"Ah!"  Keller  responded,  gently.  "Are  you 
really  in  earnest?  An  ultimate  moment!"  In 
the  pause  that  ensued  David  felt  that  the  words 
were  in  some  sort  an  accusation  against  his  in- 
tellectual integrity.  "That's  an  old,  old  idea,  my 
friend,  and  not  a  very  healthy  one.  It's  ruined 
more  men  than  it's  saved,  a  thousand  times  over. 
Look  here!"  He  blew  a  strong  breath  through 
his  pipe-stem,  sending  a  fountain  of  red  sparks 
into  the  darkness.  "That  was  the  ultimate  mo- 
ment for  every  one  of  those." 

There  was  a  lack  of  assurance  in  David's  un- 
failing answering  laugh,  as  though,  rather  against 
his  will,  he  caught  the  force  of  the  suggestion. 
Keller  emptied  his  pipe  again  and  put  it  away  in 
his  pocket,  then  dropped  to  the  ground,  coming 
close  and  laying  his  hand  upon  David's  shoulder. 
"Don't  let  me  influence  you  too  much.  A  man 
must  follow  his  own  convictions,  and  I  want  you 

35 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

to  follow  yours.  I'm  simply  following  mine  when 
I  say  that  there  is  no  ultimate  moment  for  any 
of  us  except  the  present.  We  must  find  our 
joys  in  our  work  and  not  in  the  thought  of  a 
far-off  reward.  It's  so  easy  to  miss  the  good  of 
to-day  by  waiting  for  that  time  by-and-by  that's 
to  witness  our  resurrection  and  crowning.  Any 
day  may  be  the  resurrection-day,  if  we  choose. 
You  mustn't  bank  too  much  in  the  future,  for  the 
future's  an  ugly,  dark,  damp  hole,  full  of  moths 
and  rust." 

"But,  Joe,  suppose  everybody  lived  according 
to  that;  what  sort  of  a  world  would  this  be?" 

' '  I  wonder !' '  Keller  returned,  calmly.  ' '  Would 
it  be  so  much  worse  than  it  is,  do  you  think?" 

David  went  about  on  another  tack.  "Don't 
misjudge  me,  old  man.  God  knows  I  love  this 
life  and  all  that's  in  it.  But  I've  been  listening 
to-night  to  the  talk  among  those  folks  in  the 
house.  There  isn't  one  large  interest  among  them 
all  —  nothing  but  a  stolid  complacency.  They 
haven't  an  idea  above  wondering  what  old  man 
Boynton  will  plant  on  his  bottom-land  next  year, 
and  how  many  hogs  Clark  lost  from  the  cholera. 
Heavens,  Joe,  that  isn't  a  big  life!  What's  the 
use  of  arguing  about  it.  It's  not  much  short  of 
inane." 

"Yes,"  Keller  conceded,  " the  life  is  primitive 
enough  in  its  mental  attitudes.  No  one  would 
think  of  consulting  these  people  on  any  of  the 
great  world-theories.     They  aren't  trying  to  con- 

36 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

found  the  world  with  any  subtle  'views,'  or  such 
like.  They  mostly  talk  nothing  but  palpable  non- 
sense ;  but  they  act  sense.  Don't  lose  sight  of  that. 
The  gift  of  wise  speech  is  very  rare,  and  I'll  ad- 
mit you  won't  find  it  here  in  the  Elkhorn  valley. 
I've  often  been  struck  by  it,  that  their  talk  is  a 
good  deal  like  picking  with  one  unskilful  finger 
on  a  single  unmusical  string.  But  in  action  they 
sweep  the  whole  gamut  of  harmony.  They  can't 
explain  their  motives,  I  know;  perhaps  it  never 
occurs  to  them  to  think  about  such  things  as 
motives.  That's  really  their  salvation.  A  man's 
in  a  bad  way  when  he  stops  to  puzzle  over  his 
work,  trying  to  make  out  what  it's  all  about." 
He  interrupted  his  own  earnestness  with  a  short 
laugh.  "Oh,  I  know  the  talk.  These  folks  are 
simple  and  rude  and  unlovely  to  look  at;  they 
don't  know  the  first  principles  of  politeness ;  they 
don't  fulfil  the  most  elementary  requirements  of 
art.  Art !  That's  the  word  that's  responsible  for 
most  of  our  idiocy.  It's  been  made  to  appear  that 
we  ought  to  consider  the  ulterior  aims  of  life, 
strike  philosophic  attitudes,  and  struggle  for  ar- 
tistic effects.  Fudge!  When  I  was  travelling, 
I  used  to  hear  that  sort  of  nonsense  till  it  turned 
my  stomach.  It  was  paradise  to  come  back  here 
and  mix  again  with  men  who  were  throwing 
heart  and  soul  into  the  pure  joy  of  living,  never 
dreaming  of  attitudes  or  effects." 

"Come,   now,"    David   broke   in,   impatiently. 
"Would    you    have    every    man    stay   with    his 

37 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

plough,  just  because  he  happens  to  be  born  on  a 
farm?" 

"I'd  have  him  think  well  before  he  quits  it  for 
something  else,"  Keller  answered,  promptly.  "I 
know  what's  on  your  mind.  You  want  to  be 
somebody.  All  right;  go  ahead  and  try  it,  and 
God  bless  you.  No,  I  don't  ask  you  to  stay  at 
your  plough.  But  I  do  say  this :  A  sweaty,  earth- 
stained  man  straining  at  his  plough  is  a  finer  and 
better  figure  than  a  posed  Apollo,  because  he's 
doing  something.  Suppose  that  in  the  interests 
of  art  he  drops  his  plough  -  handles  and  tries  to 
strike  a  pose;  that  doesn't  make  him  an  Apollo; 
it  only  makes  him  ridiculous." 

"Joe,  suppose  Lincoln  had  stayed  at  his  rail- 
splitting?  Suppose  Jesus  had  stayed  at  his  car- 
penter's bench?" 

"Oh,  that's  another  question  entirely,"  Keller 
returned,  imperturbably.  "  If  a  man  is  intrusted 
with  a  message,  he  must  go  and  deliver  it,  of 
course.  If  that's  what's  moving  you,  I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  as  I  did." 

David  met  this  speech  honestly.  "No,  I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  any  message  in  particular." 

Keller  swung  the  gate  open  and  went  out,  then 
turned  and  offered  both  his  hands. 

"  Well,  good-bye,  and  good  luck !  You're  as  fine 
a  fellow  as  I  know.  I'll  be  as  glad  as  yourself  if 
the  thing  turns  out  well  with  you.  You  mustn't 
take  what  I've  said  too  much  to  heart.  When  it 
comes  to  a  question  of  destiny,  every  man  must 

38 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

work  it  out  for  himself;  all  this  pother  of  debate 
doesn't  affect  it  a  bit,  one  way  or  the  other.  Good- 
bye." 

"Good-bye,  Joe,"  David  said,  with  real  feeling; 
and  without  more  ado  Keller  strode  away  down 
the  road. 


WHEN  he  was  in  the  house  again  David's 
mind  promptly  shed  its  seriousness.  The 
cause  was  not  far  to  seek.  The  work  in  the  kitch- 
en and  dining-room  had  been  finished,  and  Ruth 
stood  beneath  the  swinging  lamp  in  the  hall  tak- 
ing her  share  in  the  fun  that  was  now  revived  and 
in  full  glow.  She  had  put  aside  her  apron  and  had 
given  to  her  toilet  some  touches  of  final  arrange- 
ment, as  daintily  effective  as  they  were  mysteri- 
ous. David  was  instantly  aware  of  the  change. 
She  was  superbly  beautiful.  Just  to  behold  her  at 
the  distance  of  the  hall's  length  gave  him  keen  de- 
light ;  and  this  was  deepened  when  the  group  about 
her  parted,  in  tacit  understanding,  making  way 
for  him  to  approach.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening 
he  was  hardly  to  be  coaxed  from  her  side;  and 
when  the  party  broke  up,  near  midnight,  and  he 
listened  to  the  frank,  friendly,  awkward  words  of 
farewell,  the  occasion  for  such  speech  seemed  to 
him  quite  unreal  and  far  away.  His  every  other 
thought  had  been  lost  in  the  simple  ecstasy  of 
Ruth's  presence  and  companionship. 

When  his  guests  had  driven  away,  after  the  last 
word  of  parting,  he  took  his  place  at  her  side  and 

40 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

walked  with  her  down  the  pathway  towards  the 
road.  As  the  gate  closed  behind  them  she  rested 
her  hand  lightly  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  but  that 
did  not  fill  the  measure  of  his  desire. 

"Please,  Ruth,"  he  whispered,  and  the  demure 
hand  crept  forward  along  his  arm  until  his  fingers 
could  clasp  hers.  Then  he  was  satisfied,  until  it 
flashed  upon  him  that  with  every  step,  however 
slow,  he  was  getting  nearer  the  end.  When  they 
came  to  the  entrance  to  the  lane  that  made  a 
short  cut  across  the  fields  she  offered  to  turn  from 
the  road,  but  he  drew  her  back. 

"  Let's  go  the  long  way,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Oh,  David!"  she  said,  in  gentle  protest.  "  It's 
half  a  mile  farther."  Nevertheless,  she  fell  again 
into  step  with  him  on  the  "long  way." 

"I  wish  it  were  half-way  across  the  State,"  he 
declared,  in  sudden  audacity. 

She  laughed,  a  ringing  peal  of  undisguised  en- 
joyment. "You'd  miss  your  train  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Then  in  silence  they  moved  slowly  onward. 
To  other  folk  that  would  have  appeared  as  only 
a  commonplace  country  road,  dusty  and  weed- 
grown,  but  to  David  it  seemed  a  fair  by-path  in 
paradise.  The  measures  of  distance  and  time 
became  all  at  once  meaningless  fictions;  nothing 
was  real  but  the  instant  and  its  joy.  The  wide 
night  drew  close,  touching  them,  enfolding  them. 
Far  away  some  of  the  young  people,  homeward 
bound,    were   singing.     The   sound   appeared   to 

4i 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

have  no  place — to  come  to  them  out  of  the  upper 
air.  The  slow,  south  wind  lagged  and  loitered 
under  its  heavy  burden  of  sweet,  wild  odors.  By- 
and  -  by  the  moon  crept  above  the  rim  of  the 
prairie,  flooding  the  landscape  with  liquid  silver, 
turning  that  hour  into  the  very  climax  of  the 
year's  perfection. 

No  other  word  passed  between  them  until  they 
stopped  beneath  the  trees  at  the  end  of  their  walk. 
Then  David  came  back  to  earth  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  Ruth,  it's  been  too  good  to  last!"  He 
took  her  hands  in  his,  holding  them  with  a  firm 
pressure;  nor  did  she  deny  them  to  him.  A 
fleck  of  the  moon's  radiance  sifted  down  through 
the  leafage  and  lay  quivering  upon  her  cheek,  and 
his  heart  leaped  with  desire. 

"Dear  Ruth,"  he  whispered.  "I  never  knew 
that  moonlight  was  a  thing  a  man  might  long  to 
kiss."  She  did  not  try  to  escape  from  him;  she 
only  bent  her  beautiful  head  in  silence.  He  put 
his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  close.  "Ruth," 
he  cried,  softly,  "you  have  never  kissed  me." 

She  did  not  resist ;  she  turned  her  glorious  face 
to  his  in  the  tender  light,  and  he  bent  and  touch- 
ed her  lips  with  his.  For  an  instant  she  yielded 
herself  to  his  arms;  then,  with  an  inarticulate, 
startled  cry,  she  broke  from  his  clasp  and  ran 
swiftly  up  the  pathway  towards  the  house ;  and 
he  turned  homeward,  his  heart  singing  to  the 
night. 

An  eerie  quiet  was  in  the  hall,  where  so  short  a 
42 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

time  ago  rollicking  mirth  had  ruled.  A  lamp 
had  been  left  burning  for  him,  but  he  turned  it 
out  and  went  to  his  room  in  the  moonlight.  He 
had  no  inclination  for  sleep;  he  made  no  prep- 
aration for  bed,  but  sat  by  the  open  window, 
looking  out.  He  heard  a  clock  on  the  stair- 
landing  strike  two,  then  three,  then  four.  When 
he  arose  at  last  and  threw  himself  upon  his  bed 
there  was  a  look  upon  the  face  of  the  eastern 
sky  as  though  it  was  expecting  the  dawn. 


VI 


DAVID  had  slept  but  a  little  while  when  he 
started  up,  broad  awake,  tingling  with  life. 
A  jay  was  scolding  in  the  elm  before  his  window; 
a  cockerel  flapped  his  wings  in  the  yard  below, 
crowing  lustily.  The  new  day  was  well  begun. 
David  stepped  lightly  into  the  hall  and  down  the 
stairs,  meaning  to  do  his  usual  share  of  the  morn- 
ing chores  before  the  household  should  be  aroused ; 
but  he  found  his  mother  moving  about  the  kitchen, 
busy  with  preparations  for  breakfast. 

"Well,  son!"  she  said,  in  composed  greeting. 

"  Why,  mother !"  he  returned.  "  I  didn't  think 
you'd  be  up  yet.  Aren't  you  tired  after  all  that 
fuss?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  answered,  easily.  "  You 
mustn't  think  I  need  any  pampering  yet.  I  wish 
you'd  fetch  me  a  basket  of  cobs  and  fix  up  the 
fire  a  bit,  and  I'll  have  your  breakfast  ready  in 
five  minutes." 

He  went  out  willingly  upon  his  errand.  There 
was  a  tonic  chill  in  the  morning  air;  it  refreshed 
his  senses;  he  breathed  deep  draughts  of  it  into 
his  lungs,  feeling  it  affecting  him  like  wine.  When 
he  had  stuffed  the  stove  with  the  light  fuel,  he 

44 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

went  out  again  to  the  pump  in  the  yard  and  made 
his  toilet  at  the  spout.  On  his  return  his  mother 
set  before  him  on  the  table  a  steaming  plate  and 
cup. 

"You  won't  mind  eating  party  -  scraps,  will 
you?"  she  said.  "There  was  such  a  lot  left  over. 
I  wish  to  goodness  there  was  somebody  to  give  it 
to.  If  a  tramp  was  to  happen  along  this  morn- 
ing, I'd  scare  him  to  death  giving  him  ice-cream 
for  his  breakfast." 

David's  habitual  laugh  rang  true  and  large. 
"  There's  the  tramp  problem  all  settled !  Kill  'em 
off  with  ice-cream  for  breakfast!  I'll  have  to  tell 
that  to  Joe,  and  let  him  make  a  poem  out  of  it. 
It  would  be  just  about  as  sensible  as  some  of  his 
sociological  notions." 

"Joe  wasn't  here,  was  he,  last  night?"  she 
questioned. 

"Just  for  a  minute — just  to  tell  me  good-bye. 
He  was  too  busy  to  stay."  He  sipped  slowly 
at  his  coffee,  meditating  upon  the  conference  at 
the  gate,  considering  its  points.  "  I  like  Joe,"  he 
said,  presently.  "You'd  have  been  tickled  to 
hear  the  way  he  talked  to  me  last  night — like  a 
Dutch  uncle.  He's  afraid  I'm  going  to  fall 
down." 

The  mother's  face  showed  no  sign  of  appre- 
hension ;  the  mother's  eyes  were  untroubled. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  son  of  mine  will  ever  get  a 
very  bad  fall,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I'd  be  will- 
ing to  trust  my  boys  anywhere."     She  came  and 

45 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

stood  beside  him,  stroking  his  hair  with  a  fond, 
light  touch.  "I've  never  preached  much  to  my 
children,  as  some  mothers  do.  I  haven't  known 
how.  All  I've  tried  to  do  has  been  to  let  them  see 
my  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  and  let  them  make 
up  their  minds  for  themselves  about  things.  It's 
worked  pretty  well,  too,"  she  added,  with  a  smile. 
"I'm  proud  of  my  boys.  I  shouldn't  be  afraid  of 
either  one  of  you  falling  out  of  any  place  you 
climb  to." 

Uncle  Billy  came  into  the  kitchen  just  then, 
bearing  a  brimming  milk-pail.  He  set  his  burden 
down  and  stood  by  the  stove  warming  his  knotted 
hands,  grunting  with  the  pain  in  his  old  joints. 
Mrs.  Boughton  poured  for  him  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  he  sat  at  the  table,  emptying  the  cup  into 
its  saucer  and  drinking  with  hissing  gulps. 

"That's  the  stuff,"  he  said,  gratefully.  "Gim 
me  some  hot  coffee  in  the  mornin',  with  plenty  of 
cream  and  sugar,  an'  the  rest  of  you  can  have 
all  them  fancy  drinks.  That's  just  one  reason 
why  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  die  an'  git  to  be  a  sperrit. 
I  don't  reckon  a  ghost  could  hold  a  drink  o' 
coffee,  could  he?  It  'd  all  come  drizzlin'  out 
through  his  pores." 

"Now,  Billy!"  Mrs.  Boughton  cautioned.  It 
was  one  of  the  pleasant  fictions  of  the  household 
that  this  childlike  old  man  was  a  very  demon  of 
irreverence,  requiring  constant  check  from  steadier 
and  more  pious  souls.  He  was  never  so  well 
pleased  as  when  he  had  called  down  upon  himself 

46 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

a  word  of  reproof  for  some  outbreak  of  spiritual 
daring. 

"  That's  what,"  he  chuckled. 

"Now,  Billy!"  Mrs.  Boughton  repeated;  and 
he  hobbled  away,  wagging  his  gray  head  in  self- 
approval,  leaving  them  to  their  last  hour  to- 
gether. 

"Be  a  good  boy,  David,"  the  mother  said,  in 
parting  counsel — the  mother-word  since  mother- 
hood began.  "  If  anything  goes  wrong  with  you, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  it,  first  of  all,  so  long 
as  I'm  here.  That's  about  all  I'm  staying  for, 
now,  is  just  to  help  my  children  when  they  need 
me."  She  walked  with  him  through  the  hall, 
clasping  his  arm  between  her  hands,  hanging  to 
him.  At  the  door  he  threw  his  arms  about  her  in 
honest  affection,  kissing  her  again  and  again. 

"  It  isn't  as  though  I  was  going  away  to  stay," 
he  said.  "  I'll  be  home  every  Sunday  when  I  can, 
and  I'll  write  to  you  often  between  times.  You're 
the  best  little  mother  a  man  ever  had,  and  I'm 
going  to  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy." 

With  a  wave  of  his  hand,  and  a  last  laughing 
call  of  farewell,  he  was  off,  swinging  along  the 
prairie  road  with  the  bold  step  of  one  going  to 
certain  victory. 

When  he  came -to  the  mouth  of  the  lane  where 
he  had  passed  with  Ruth  the  night  before,  he 
paused  and  looked  at  his  watch.  If  he  made  the 
best  of  his  time  he  would  have  twenty  minutes 
to  spare.     He  quickened  his  pace  and  struck  off 

47 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

through  the  fields,  hoping  for  a  last  glimpse  of  his 
sweetheart.  As  he  drew  near  the  house  his  eyes 
searched  every  place  where  she  might  be,  but  he 
did  not  see  her.  There  was  no  time  to  waste.  He 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  gate,  then  hesitated,  an 
odd  shyness  possessing  him.  He  did  not  know 
what  he  would  say  to  her  if  he  met  her  now.  It 
was  most  likely  that  her  mother  would  be  present, 
with  some  of  the  half -grown  and  curious-minded 
children.  Perhaps  it  was  better  to  wait.  He  was 
passing  on  when  a  voice  hailed  him  from  a  corner 
of  the  cornfield  adjoining  the  house-lot: 

"Hi,  Dave!  Don't  be  in  such  a  rush.  Don't 
you  want  a  hunk  o'  this?" 

A  boy  sat  upon  the  ground  among  the  corn- 
stalks, a  freckled  and  tanned  youngster  of  ten 
years,  lank  of  limb,  unformed,  with  low,  bulging 
forehead  and  clear,  impudent  eyes.  Between  his 
knees  he  held  the  half  of  a  late  watermelon,  and 
beside  him  upon  the  ground  was  a  heap  of  broken 
rind.  His  mouth  and  chin  were  dripping  with  the 
juice;  his  faded  calico  waist  was  stained  with  it. 

"I  found  this  over  in  the  patch  yeste'day,"  he 
said,  "  an'  I  hid  it  out  till  I  could  get  a  chance  to 
eat  it  'thout  havin'  to  whack  up  with  all  them 
kids.  They  don't  divide  with  me.  I  took  an 
apple  away  from  Ben  last  night  in  bed,  an'  he 
yelled  bloody  murder.  If  that  little  fyst  wants 
any  melon,  let  him  go  trail  one,  like  I  done." 

"Say,  old  man,"  David  interrupted;  "do  you 
know  where  your  sister  is?" 

48 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Aw,  I  got  four  sisters,"  the  boy  returned, 
with  a  touch  of  scorn.  "Which  one  of  'em? 
Ruth?  She  ain't  here.  She's  gone  down  to  the 
creamery.  She  said  /  had  to  hitch  up  an'  take 
her;  but  Joe  Keller  come  along  in  his  buggy,  an' 
she  went  along  with  him."  He  blew  out  a  spat- 
tering shower  of  pulp  and  seeds,  then  sat  up  with 
a  hopeless  sigh.  "Gee!  I  can't  stuff  another 
mouthful.  I'm  plum  full,  up  to  my  neck.  I 
know  what  I'm  goin'  to  do:  I'm  goin'  to  rub  dirt 
all  over  what's  left,  an'  tell  Ben  to  come  out  an' 
look.  Won't  he  throw  a  fit !  Nasty  little  beggar ! 
He's  been  actin'  too  smart  lately  to  suit  me,  just 
because  I  dropped  a  little  live  toad  down  the 
back  of  his  neck  th'  other  day.  What's  a  toad, 
to  make  such  a  fuss  about?  But  he  laid  flat 
down  on  the  ground  an'  bellered  like  he  was  goin' 
to  die.  If  he  don't  watch  out,  me  an'  him's  goin' 
to  have  trouble  one  o'  these  days.  An'  that  Joe 
Keller,  too!  Do  you  like  him?  I  don't.  I  don't 
think  he  knows  very  much.  He  made  me  mad 
this  mornin'.  He  said  he'd  think  I'd  be  scairt  to 
go  out  in  a  hard  rain,  for  fear  the  rain-water  'd 
run  down  my  nose  an'  drown  me.  What's  it  to 
him  if  my  nose  does  turn  up?  Say,  I  don't  like 
any  o'  Ruth's  fellers,  only  you.  If  she  marries 
any  of  'em,  now  you  bet  I'll  make  him  wonder 
what  kind  of  a  family  he's  struck.  You  can 
marry  her,  though,  if  you  want  to,  an'  I'll  keep 
my  han's  off ;  you  could  marry  every  sister  I  got — 
the  whole  bunch  of  'em — if  they  was  big  enough." 
4  49 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Thanks,  Dick,"  David  answered,  gayly.  "I'll 
think  about  it,  and  maybe  when  I  come  back  we 
can  fix  up  some  kind  of  a  deal.     Good-bye." 

When  he  was  on  his  way  again  his  eyes  were 
watchful  ahead.  Twice  he  made  sure  that  he  saw 
Ruth  in  the  distance,  but  each  time  it  turned  out 
to  be  a  stout,  stolid,  gingham-clad  farmer's  wife, 
driving  homeward  from  her  marketing.  He  felt 
for  them  a  curious  sense  of  pity,  almost  com- 
miseration; they  seemed  so  far  removed  from 
romance,  from  every  form  of  youthful  exaltation. 
Butter  and  eggs  meant  so  much  to  them;  and, 
above  all,  they  appeared  not  to  comprehend  their 
low  estate.  Their  fat  faces  and  baggy  shoulders 
expressed  nothing  but  dull  placidity.  Ruth 
would  never  be  like  that!  He  longed  to  behold 
her  once  again,  if  only  to  dispel  the  unreasoning 
depression  of  spirit  that  followed  his  meeting  with 
these  old  wives.  But  he  did  not  see  her.  The 
creamery  lay  at  some  distance  out  of  his  way,  and 
he  was  forced  to  go  on  directly  to  the  station. 

His  train  whistled  a  warning  of  its  approach 
just  as  he  had  bought  his  ticket  and  seen  that  his 
trunk  was  ready.  He  was  glad  of  that ;  he  was  in 
no  humor  for  meeting  his  acquaintances  in  Water- 
loo ;  h6  felt  that  they  would  grate  upon  him,  with 
their  listless  cheerfulness,  their  slow,  level  speech, 
their  narrow  range  of  mood  and  sympathy.  He 
wanted  to  be  alone,  that  he  might  think.  In  the 
two  or  three  minutes  that  passed,  while  the 
baggage  was  being  loaded  into  its  car,  he  sat 

5° 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

looking  out  through  his  window  upon  the  tree- 
lined,  sunlit  street,  with  its  broken  row  of  poor 
frame  buildings.  Here  and  there  was  a  farmer's 
wagon  standing  before  a  shop,  the  heads  of  the 
work-weary  horses  drooping.  Sitting  along  the 
edges  of  the  walks  were  rows  of  dawdling  loafers, 
unkempt,  ill  -  clad  —  poor  hostages  to  destiny. 
Others  of  their  kind  were  gathered  at  the  station, 
leaning  their  backs  against  the  wall,  or  squatting 
about  on  the  platform,  watching  the  train  with 
eyes  that  betrayed  no  gleam  of  anything  so  vital 
as  interest.  Nowhere  in  the  village  was  there  to 
be  seen  a  man  in  active  motion ;  the  place  seemed 
in  the  thrall  of  inertia.  Yes,  he  was  glad  to 
leave  it.  Already  he  felt  himself  almost  a 
stranger  to  its  people  and  their  emotionless  life. 
He  had  no  regret  when  the  train  got  under  way 
and  the  dull  picture  slipped  slowly  backward  out 
of  sight.  As  the  train  rumbled  over  the  bridge 
that  spanned  the  Elkhorn  he  settled  back  against 
the  seat-cushion  and  set  his  thoughts  upon  the 
future. 

Ah,  he  would  live  now!  He  would  know  the 
glory  of  achievement.  He  would  know  what  it 
means  to  swing  forward  out  of  the  waiting  re- 
serve and  into  the  battle-line,  where  the  strongest 
and  bravest  are  massed  thick — struggling,  torn, 
spent,  blind  with  dust  and  blood  and  passion, 
losing  themselves  in  the  great  might  of  accom- 
plishment, yet  somehow  held  steadfast  through  it 
all,  while  their  straining  eyes  were  set  upon  that 

5i 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ancient  landmark  of  man's  desire — thought  of 
victory.  Victory!  The  very  word  warmed  his 
heart,  brought  his  soul  to  a  white  glow.  His 
vision  was  none  the  less  real  to  him  because  it 
had  as  yet  no  clearer  form  than  a  summer  breeze. 
He  would  give  it  form,  once  he  had  bent  his 
strength  to  it.  He  felt  his  strength  to  be  illimit- 
able. He  had  thought  of  that  often.  He  had 
heard  the  word  failure  whispered  sometimes  by 
worn  and  tired  folk,  half  under  their  breath ;  but 
it  had  meant  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  sort  of 
shameless  blasphemy  against  the  god  that  dwells 
in  the  will  of  a  man,  inspiring  and  guiding  him. 
He  could  not  understand  why  any  man  should 
fail  of  whatsoever  attainment  he  might  set  his 
heart  upon;  he  could  not  believe  that  worthy 
ambition,  which  would  lead  a  man  to  dare  the 
vast  accidents  of  life,  could  turn  out  at  last  an 
evil  lure,  a  grim,  ironical  illusion.  Death  was  to 
him  a  familiar  fact,  and  not  unreasonable;  but 
failure — no,  he  could  not  understand  that.  He 
meant  to  win.  Surely  that  was  not  a  vain  dream, 
while  he  was  held  to  his  work  by  the  ideals  of 
youth  and  by  thought  of  Ruth  —  Ruth  and  the 
golden  splendor  of  love. 

Throughout  his  life  he  had  known  nothing  of 
real  care  or  perplexity;  even  his  responsibilities 
had  been  light,  almost  intangible,  shared  as  they 
were  by  nature's  beneficent  genii.  Each  spring- 
time had  come  to  him  as  a  prophecy  of  good 
things;  each  harvest  season  had  followed  as  a 

52 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

logical,  an  inevitable  fulfilment  of  the  pledge. 
The  vast  labor  of  conquering  the  wilderness  of  the 
prairie,  in  which  his  father  had  been  a  pioneer, 
had  been  well  over  before  his  birth;  from  his 
earliest  youth  there  had  been  a  comfortable 
tranquillity,  undisturbed  by  oppressing  want.  If 
his  desires  had  been  merely  plain  and  wholesome, 
they  had  never  been  balked  or  thwarted.  It  was 
but  natural  that  he  should  have  come  to  look 
upon  life  as  a  thing  of  order — a  magnificent  cosmos 
whose  affairs  moved  duly  forward  in  divinely  ap- 
pointed orbits.  Under  such  conditions  he  could 
not,  if  he  would,  have  avoided  a  sublime  con- 
fidence in  himself  and  his  strength  and  in  the 
great  scheme  of  things. 

He  was  so  lost  in  the  mazes  of  his  thoughts  that 
he  gave  no  heed  to  what  was  passing  around  him 
until  the  train  slowed  down  at  the  outer  limits 
of  the  Omaha  yards ;  and  soon  it  pulled  up  at  the 
station,  panting  from  its  long  run,  puffing  out 
great  clouds  of  misty  breath. 


VII 


DAVID  went  out  directly  through  the  station 
to  the  street  and  set  off  up-town  on  foot.  He 
preferred  that  way;  he  was  eager  for  his  first 
contact  with  the  crowds,  of  which  he  was  now  to 
be  a  part.  He  wanted  to  refresh  himself  with 
the  odor  of  the  asphalt  and  with  the  look  on  the 
faces  of  the  people.  As  he  turned  into  Farnam 
Street  and  bent  his  steps  towards  the  towering 
building  on  the  hill  where  he  was  to  begin  his 
work,  every  sound  of  the  busy  thoroughfare — the 
hum  of  the  motor  cars,  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs 
on  the  pavements,  the  scuffle  of  hurrying  feet  on 
the  walks,  the  strident  calling  of  newsboys  and 
fruit-peddlers — the  whole  inarticulate  clamor  of 
the  town's  throng  was  to  his  ears  an  enthralling 
harmony.  It  was  the  overture  before  the  rise  of 
the  curtain. 

He  entered  the  rotunda  of  the  great  building 
and  stepped  into  a  waiting  elevator  cage. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  Mr.  Paul  Watson's  office,"  he 
said  to  the  uniformed  conductor.  "  Eighth  floor, 
isn't  it?" 

The  door  clanged  shut  and  he  was  whirled  up 
the  dark  shaft;  then  stepped  out  upon  the  tiled 

54 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

floor  of  the  corridor,  where  he  found  the  door  he 
sought  and  pushed  it  open. 

The  room  was  large,  facing  the  south,  with  a 
wide  outlook  over  the  city.  To  his  unaccustomed 
eyes  its  elegant  furnishings  savored  more  of  leisure 
and  luxury  than  of  strenuous  activity.  A  rich 
rug  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  upon  it 
stood  a  long  library  table,  its  top  strewn  with 
newspapers,  magazines,  and  some  volumes  of  the 
newest  fiction.  Beside  the  table  were  deep,  allur- 
ing easy-chairs.  By  the  windows  were  growing 
palms  in  jardinieres.  The  only  symbol  of  in- 
dustry in  the  room  was  a  girl  who  sat  before  a 
typewriter,  her  deft  fingers  picking  lightly  at  the 
keys. 

She  looked  up  from  her  work  upon  his  entrance, 
speaking  a  quiet  word  of  formal  greeting. 

"Is  Mr.  Watson  in?"  David  asked. 

"  He  is  engaged  just  now,"  she  answered.  "  Will 
you  wait?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  but  he  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment at  her  side,  smiling  down  upon  her.  "My 
name  is  David  Boughton,"  he  said,  in  tentative 
introduction .   "I  am  to  read  law  in  the  office  here . " 

"  Oh  yes!"  He  saw  that  she  gave  him  a  closer 
scrutiny  then  —  a  woman's  glance,  instantane- 
ous, interested,  comprehending.  It  was  approv- 
ing, too,  though  he  had  not  enough  of  vanity  to 
let  him  see  that.  "  Mr.  Watson  will  be  at  liberty 
soon,  I  think,"  she  said.  "Will  you  please  be 
seated?" 

55 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

She  turned  again  to  her  work,  brisk,  energetic, 
and  he  stood  by  one  of  the  windows,  looking  out. 
The  street,  a  hundred  feet  below,  seemed  very 
remote;  the  hurrying  figures  of  men  and  women 
were  mere  crawling  midgets.  He  felt  curiously 
estranged  from  them,  in  their  unnatural,  fore- 
shortened aspect,  as  though  they  were  creatures  of 
another  sphere.  But  across  the  way,  on  a  level 
with  his  eyes,  was  the  court-house — a  big,  square- 
shouldered  mass  of  gray,  weather  -  soiled  stone, 
standing  on  a  hill  of  its  own,  far  above  the  pave- 
ment, and  reached  by  many  tedious  flights  of 
stone  steps — making  the  seat  of  justice  a  place 
difficult  of  attainment  for  the  short-winded.  It 
was  sordid  and  ugly  enough;  but  to  his  imagina- 
tion, still  fresh  and  boyish,  it  was  surrounded  by  a 
nimbus  of  enchantment,  as  he  stood  looking  at  it, 
thinking  how  it  was  to  figure  in  the  evolution  of 
his  future. 

By-and-by  there  came  to  him  through  the  veil 
of  his  preoccupation  the  sound  of  men's  voices 
from  behind  a  closed  door  near  at  hand.  One  was 
thin  and  high-pitched ;  the  other  a  huge,  explosive 
bass.  He  could  distinguish  no  words;  but  he 
amused  himself  with  listening  to  the  tones,  trying 
to  gauge  the  shifting  emotions  of  the  speakers. 
The  contrasted  accents  gave  a  queer,  jolting  effect, 
as  though  the  conference  was  moving  forward 
over  a  rough  road.  As  he  listened,  instinctively 
he  took  sides  with  the  robust  bass  against  the 
other.     And  the  bass  appeared  to  be  having  the 

56 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

best  of  it ;  it  rose  suddenly  in  a  vigorous  outburst, 
every  word  a  detonation.  The  door  opened  and 
two  men  came  out.  The  one  in  advance  was 
a  lean,  stooping  fellow,  mean  -  featured,  meanly 
fashioned  throughout.  The  thin  voice  was  his, 
and  he  was  using  it  in  a  parting  word. 

"All  right,  Watson;  it's  for  you  to  say.  He 
sent  me,  and  I  came ;  my  responsibility  ends  when 
I've  given  you  his  message.  You'd  better  think 
about  it,  though.  He  can  make  it  worth  your 
while  not  to  be  too  hard  on  him.  You'd  better 
wait  and  think  it  over." 

Watson  followed  close  upon  the  other's  heels. 
His  was  a  gigantic  figure,  heavy  with  flesh,  full 
of  red  blood,  big-limbed,  almost  elephantine  in 
girth  of  waist  and  shoulders,  with  thick  neck  and  a 
massive,  shaggy  breadth  of  head.  The  lines  of  his 
face  all  tended  downward,  but  without  flaccidity. 
It  was  a  stern,  resolute  face ;  one  of  those  faces 
upon  which  a  smile  looks  out  of  place  and  un- 
comfortable. He  held  up  his  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  dismissal. 

"Boh!"  he  said,  in  an  ominous  rumble.  "You 
go  back  to  your  master  and  tell  him  I  said  he 
needn't  come  whining  to  me  for  mercy  with  the 
blood  of  his  own  helpless  victims  clotted  on  his 
lips.  I've  got  him  under  my  foot,  and  I'm  going 
to  crush  him.     That's  all.     Now,  you  go." 

When  his  visitor  was  gone,  he  turned  to  David 
and  stood  regarding  him  boldly,  searchingly.  The 
girl  at  the  desk  looked  up  from  her  work. 

57 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Mr.  Watson,  this  is  Mr.  Boughton,"  she  said. 

"Boughton?"  Watson  echoed.  "Boughton?  Oh 
yes,  yes,  of  course!"  He  held  out  his  hand  and 
stood  waiting  while  David  crossed  the  width  of 
the  room  to  take  it.  It  was  a  warm,  firm  hand, 
with  a  tenacious  grasp.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
I  didn't  recognize  the  name  at  first — I  suppose 
because  I  expected  to  see  a  farmer's  boy — one 
of  the  raw  sort.  I  was  that  kind  when  I  left  the 
farm.  Come  in."  And  he  led  the  way  into  his 
private  office. 

Here  was  a  greater  refinement  of  luxury  than  in 
the  outer  room.  Every  article  of  furniture  was  of 
the  best ;  the  pictures  and  decorations  alone  rep- 
resented a  poor  man's  fortune.  Yet  the  room 
was  dominated  by  an  air  of  classic  simplicity — 
strong,  individual,  reflecting  taste  of  a  high  order. 
A  lawyer's  library  is  usually  a  nondescript  place, 
with  no  rightful  claim  to  beauty.  This  was 
hardly  beautiful,  in  any  light,  aesthetic  sense 
of  the  word,  yet  there  was  an  unmistakable  im- 
pression of  refinement  in  its  solid,  almost  prim- 
itive strength.  The  book -cases  that  lined  ev- 
ery available  foot  of  the  walls  —  plain,  square 
structures  of  mahogany,  all  of  one  pattern — 
seemed  an  essential  part  of  the  effect.  They 
were  glutted  with  books,  and  there  were  over- 
flow deposits  of  odd  volumes  everywhere  —  on 
desk,  table,  and  window-ledges,  and  on  the  chairs 
and  floor. 

Watson  closed  the  door  and  sank  heavily  into 
58 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

the  chair  before  his  desk,  motioning  David  into 
another  that  stood  opposite. 

"So,  you've  come,"  he  said.  "Well,  I'm  glad 
of  it.  I'm  glad  of  the  chance  to  serve  a  son  of 
your  mother.  She's  a  fine  woman.  She  was  a 
fine  girl,  too.  She  taught  the  first  school  I  ever 
went  to,  back  in  Ohio.  I  suppose  she's  told 
you?" 

"Yes,"  David  answered,  simply,  perfunctorily. 
He  was  heartily  glad  to  have  Watson  talk,  until 
he  could  get  his  bearings.  This  was  his  first  sight 
of  the  man,  and  it  was  affecting  him  strangely. 
He  could  not  quite  make  it  out,  but  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  felt  himself  ill  at  ease,  as  though 
his  faculties  were  all  turned  blunt  on  the  edges 
in  the  presence  of  a  masterful  personality.  It 
was  not  the  man's  mere  bulk  of  figure  that  awed 
him,  nor  the  thunderous  voice,  nor  the  ponderous 
manner,  nor  the  superabundance  of  vital  energy; 
it  was  something  that  looked  out  of  the  deep, 
sombre  eyes.  Hidden  away  in  that  mountainous 
mass  of  tissue  was  a  splendid  intellect,  driven  by 
an  unconquerable  will. 

"Yes,"  Watson  went  on;  "she  was  good  to  me 
in  those  days,  and  I  haven't  forgotten  it.  I  need- 
ed just  the  kind  of  help  she  gave  me.  I  was 
an  unruly  little  devil.  I  never  knew  how  she  did 
it;  but  she  inspired  me  with  a  passion  for  decency. 
Oh,  I've  done  a  power  of  evil  in  my  time,  of  course ; 
but  I've  done  a  few  recreant  scraps  of  good  along 
with  the  bad.     I'd  never  have  done  that  without 

59 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

her.  I'd  never  have  amounted  to  a  hill  of  beans 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  her." 

He  had  taken  a  knife  from  the  desk  and  was 
caring  for  his  nails,  trimming  and  biting  them 
savagely,  and  speaking  between  times  in  jerky- 
sentences.  He  was  silent  now  for  a  little  while, 
his  features  drawn  tense  by  memory.  Then  all 
at  once  they  relaxed,  and  he  turned  his  seeing 
eyes  to  David's. 

"  So  you  want  to  read  law,  do  you?"  he  queried. 
"Well,  law  is  a  good  enough  business  if  a  man 
knows  how  to  use  it.  The  secret  of  success  is  in 
the  man,  though,  and  not  in  the  law.  The  secret 
of  success  is  always  in  the  man,  in  everything, 
and  in  all  times.  For  the  weakling,  all  times  are 
hard  times ;  but  for  the  strong  man,  the  man  who's 
able,  any  time  is  a  good  time.  I've  heard  young- 
sters talk  about  getting  'grounded  in  the  law,'  as 
if  that  was  enough  to  shape  their  career.  But 
that  isn't  the  groundwork.  You'll  have  to  begin 
further  back  than  that.  What  a  man  wants  to 
begin  with  is  sense,  then  some  law,  and  then  more 
sense  on  top  of  that — like  the  bread  on  both  sides 
of  a  sandwich.     Do  you  see?" 

"Yes,"  David  returned,  lightly,  with  an  acces- 
sion of  composure.  "  But  the  law  is  at  least  the 
meat  in  the  sandwich,  isn't  it?" 

"No,"  Watson  said,  with  a  shake  of  his  burly 
head.  "  No ;  the  law  of  the  law-books  is  only  the 
mustard.  You  want  to  get  rid,  right  away,  of 
any    superstitious    reverence    for    these    tons    of 

60 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

books.  They're  false  gods;  they're  a  hopeless 
tangle,  and  the  tangle  is  getting  worse  every  year. 
We'll  have  to  have  another  revolution  after  a 
while  and  go  back  to  the  beginning  and  start 
fresh.  It's  sense,  more  than  any  amount  of 
learning,  that  gives  a  man  initiative  genius.  Law ! 
Why,  good  Lord!  A  lawyer  whose  head  isn't 
furnished  with  anything  but  law  will  starve  to 
death.  Read  other  things — all  you  can  of  good 
books — fiction,  history,  biography — everything. 
Get  out  and  knock  around  with  men,  too.  After 
all,  when  you  get  down  to  the  bottom  of  it,  it's 
men  you'll  have  to  handle,  more  than  laws,  if  you 
want  to  come  out  a  winner.  A  little  sure  knowl- 
edge of  men  is  worth  more  than  a  million  pages 
of  Kent  or  Chitty  or  Wharton,  or  anybody  else 
in  the  books.  I  don't  mean  that  you  want  to 
learn  how  to  play  on  men's  weaknesses.  That's 
a  contemptible  business.  You  want  to  know  their 
strength.  It's  the  sheer,  downright,  native  strength 
of  men  that  moves  the  world,  and  don't  you  let 
yourself  forget  it  for  a  minute." 

They  sat  in  serious  colloquy  until  the  whistles 
and  bells  of  the  city  raised  the  cry  of  noon. 
Watson  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Is  it  twelve  already?  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so 
late.  And  I've  got  a  big  afternoon's  work,  too,  in 
federal  court.  Say,  have  you  found  a  stopping- 
place?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do;  sup- 
pose you  get  yourself  located  this  afternoon,  and 
come  back  here  at  five  and  go  to  dinner  with  me. 

61 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

You'll  do  that,  won't  you?  My  daughter  and  I 
are  living  in  a  hotel.  It's  a  poor  excuse  for  a 
home;  but  we'll  get  some  dinner,  anyway,  and 
talk  things  over  a  bit,  and  then  you'll  be  ready 
to  start  fresh  in  the  morning  on  this  fool  law 
business." 

David  gave  but  little  time  to  his  quest  for  a 
lodging-place.  He  took  almost  the  first  room  he 
saw.  It  was  a  narrow  apartment,  bare  almost 
to  the  point  of  poverty ;  but  it  was  near  the  office, 
besides  being  perfectly  clean  and  looking  out 
upon  the  street.  He  thought  it  would  do  very 
well.  He  had  never  indulged  any  tendency  tow- 
ards extravagance;  cleanliness  was  the  most  he 
desired.  When  that  was  settled  he  returned  to 
the  heart  of  the  town,  walking  the  streets  and 
looking  about. 

At  its  best,  Omaha  is  not  a  beautiful  city.  It 
is  only  a  big,  sprawling,  swaggering  example  of 
what  the  Middle  West  has  done  along  the  line  of 
crass  "enterprise" — overgrown,  arrogant,  extrav- 
agantly boastful  over  matters  not  worth  boast- 
ing about,  while  forgetful  of  most  of  those  things 
in  which  a  city  should  take  a  reasoning  pride; 
vain  of  its  show  of  wealth,  without  troubling  it- 
self about  the  means  by  which  its  wealth  was  got- 
ten, nor  about  the  use  that  is  to  be  made  of  it; 
vain  of  its  miles  of  streets,  without  stopping  to 
reflect  upon  the  deeper  meanings  of  a  street ;  vain 
of  its  hundred  thousand  people,  without  greatly 
caring  what  their  character  and  power  of  service 

62 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

may  be.  It  is  a  town  that  from  the  day  of  its 
birth  has  never  set  for  itself  any  worthy  civic 
ideal;  it  has  had  almost  no  motive  above  getting 
on  in  material  growth  and  making  a  dazzling 
show  of  itself ;  it  has  been  content  with  the  sordid 
victory  that  lies  in  outstripping  its  neighboring 
rivals  in  the  insane  struggle  of  amassing  dollars 
and  inhabitants.  Like  most  Western  towns,  it 
is  not  to  be  judged  by  the  bulk  of  its  actual  ac- 
complishment, but  rather  by  certain  vague,  half- 
suspected  tendencies  that  lie  in  the  hearts  of  a 
few — a  very  few — sane  and  sober  men  who  have 
as  yet  taken  small  part  in  affairs — men  who  are 
nursing  their  thoughts  in  secret,  waiting  patiently 
for  a  day  to  come  when  the  noise  and  bluster  of 
foolish  vanity  will  have  spent  itself.  Like  most 
Western  towns,  its  real  strength  is  only  the 
strength  to  become. 

But  to  David's  untrained  understanding  power 
of  any  sort  was  entrancing;  his  untrained  senses 
caught  greedily  at  the  flamboyant  signs  of  ener- 
gy at  work,  and  he  was  satisfied.  Through  the 
hours  of  the  afternoon  he  moved  about  the  main 
thoroughfares,  looking  in  at  the  shop  -  windows, 
pushing  himself  into  the  thickest  of  the  crowds, 
listening  to  stray  scraps  of  their  speech,  brushing 
his  shoulders  against  theirs,  imagining  that  virtue 
was  passing  into  him  from  the  contact.  He  was 
in  an  intoxication  of  enthusiasm  when  at  the 
appointed  time  he  went  again  to  Watson's 
office. 

63 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Watson  was  sitting  idly  in  his  chair,  his  big 
hands  folded  behind  his  big  head.  He  welcomed 
David  with  a  kindly  calm. 

"Sit  down  a  minute  and  let  me  catch  my 
breath,"  he  said.  "I'm  mortally  tired.  I've  had 
a  hard  afternoon's  fight.  It's  a  railroad  bond 
case.  I've  been  working  on  it  for  three  years  in 
this  court,  and  now  it's  going  to  the  Court  of 
Appeals.  It  '11  last  ten  years  longer,  likely.  But 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  win,  and  that  means 
that  I  shall  win  in  the  end.  The  trouble  is  that 
I  can't  get  the  other  fellows  to  see  it  in  that  light." 
His  moody  eyes  warmed  for  a  moment  with  an 
expression  that  in  another  man  would  have  been 
a  light  of  lively  interest.  "  My  hardest  work  is  to 
keep  up  enthusiasm.  I  used  to  have  plenty  of  it, 
but  it  seems  to  die  out  more  or  less  as  a  man  gets 
along  in  years.  Do  you  remember  what  Ste- 
venson says :  '  It  is  good  to  have  been  young 
in  youth,  and  then,  as  the  years  pass,  to  grow 
older.'  But  to  grow  old;  that's  where  the  rub 
comes.  I'd  give  a  great  deal  for  an  occasional 
day  of  my  first  years  of  fire  to  stir  up  my  blood. 
The  only  way  I  can  do  that  now  is  to  get 
angry  once  in  a  while — red  hot!  But  that's  a 
poor  substitute.  That's  one  of  the  reasons  why 
I'm  going  to  be  glad  to  have  you  with  me. 
You  haven't  got  past  the  point  where  the  game 
seems  worth  playing.  I  like  to  watch  enthu- 
siasm, even  if  I  don't  believe  much  in  it  any 
more." 

64 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  arose  laboriously,  buttoning  up  his  coat  and 
reaching  for  his  hat. 

"Come  on;  let's  go.     I  want  you  to  meet  my 
daughter  before  dinner.'' 
s 


VIII 

THE  hotel  was  a  pretentious  structure  in  point 
of  size,  but  dark  and  depressing  as  a  mauso- 
leum. The  vast,  barnlike  rotunda  seemed  more 
a  fit  abiding-place  for  bats  and  owls  than  for  com- 
fort-loving human  beings.  None  of  the  guests 
who  sat  around  in  the  stiff  rows  of  chairs  made 
even  a  pretence  of  cheerfulness ;  there  was  nothing 
to  be  cheerful  about.  Most  of  them  looked  as 
though  they  had  had  news  of  death,  and  the  rest 
looked  as  though  they  might  be  expecting  it. 
In  that  gloomy  void  they  seemed  afraid  to  speak 
aloud ;  speech  went  on  in  undertones,  with  a  hol- 
low echo  against  the  distant  roof. 

Watson  led  the  way  to  the  parlor  of  a  suite  of 
rooms  on  an  upper  floor.  A  lad  in  the  livery  of  a 
page  was  in  waiting  and  took  their  hats  and  coats. 
Watson  spoke  to  him  with  a  brusqueness  that 
amounted  to  distaste. 

"Is  your  mistress  here?" 

"She  is  in  her  room,  sir,  dressing  for  dinner," 
the  boy  answered,  softly. 

"All  right.  Go  tell  her  I'm  waiting  for  her; 
and  tell  her  I've  brought  a  guest  with  me." 

The  lad  slipped  silently  out  of  the  room,  and 
66 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Watson  let  himself  down  into  a  chair,  puffing 
out  a  deep  breath. 

"  A  silly  notion,  isn't  it — that  kid  in  buttons?" 
he  broke  out.  "  I  don't  like  servants,  on  general 
principles ;  I've  never  got  used  to  'em.  If  it  wasn't 
a  physical  impossibility,  I'd  fire  my  stenographer 
and  do  my  work  with  a  good,  old-fashioned  pen. 
Maybe  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  hate  the  thought  of  having 
anybody  do  anything  for  me.  Even  if  they're 
paid  for  it,  I  always  feel  somehow  as  if  they 
owned  me." 

The  boy  returned  with  silent,  gliding  step. 

"Miss  Margaret  says  she  will  be  in  directly, 
sir,"  he  cooed.  He  stood  apart  from  them,  at  a 
respectful  distance,  straight,  stiff,  formal.  His 
presence  appeared  to  check  any  desire  Watson 
might  have  had  for  discourse.  David  spoke  now 
and  again  in  commonplace;  but  Watson  gave  no 
more  than  a  gruff,  heedless  assent  to  what  was 
said.  The  door  opened  presently  and  a  lady  en- 
tered. 

She  was  near  David's  own  age — or  that,  at  least, 
was  his  instant  impression.  Her  skin  was  dark, 
with  a  rich,  soft  under-glow.  Her  features  were 
of  that  ineffable  type  which,  in  the  ineffective 
state  of  our  power  of  definition,  we  have  agreed  to 
call  Grecian — a  straight,  delicate  nose,  pencilled 
brows,  and  low,  broad  forehead.  Her  full,  curv- 
ing lips  were  of  a  vivid  scarlet;  the  oval  outline 
of  her  face  was  perfect.  There  was  in  her  pres- 
ence  a   suggestion  of   stately  height;    yet  when 

67 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David  arose  he  found  himself  looking  down  upon 
her  as  from  a  towering  altitude.  The  semblance 
of  height  may  have  been  due  to  the  fashion  of  her 
hair,  which  was  abundant  and  gathered  in  a 
tasteful  and  simple  mass  above  her  head;  or  of 
her  dress,  which  was  a  dinner  -  gown  of  clinging, 
wine-colored  material,  made  with  simple,  sweep- 
ing lines.  Her  only  ornament  was  a  string  of 
pearls,  that  lay  pale  against  the  clear  dusk  of  her 
neck  and  bosom. 

Watson  got  ponderously  to  his  feet,  growling  in 
fleshy  discomfort. 

"Mr.  Boughton,  let  me  present  you  to  my 
daughter,"  he  said;  and  then  to  the  girl:  "Mr. 
Boughton  is  the  man  who  will  read  law  with 
me.  We'll  be  likely  to  see  a  good  deal  of  him 
here." 

She  made  a  slow  and  slight  inclination  of  her 
graceful  body,  while  David  advanced  with  hand 
outstretched,  in  the  country  manner  of  greeting. 
She  did  not  smile;  her  eyes  were  grave,  serious. 
After  an  almost  imperceptible  instant  of  surprise 
or  timidity  or  reluctance  —  it  might  have  been 
any  or  all  of  these — she  gave  him  the  tips  of  her 
slender  fingers.  It  was  a  very  intangible  hand; 
when  he  would  have  grasped  it  cordially  it  was 
gone,  he  knew  not  how.  She  spoke  his  name 
calmly,  distinctly,  then  glanced  with  the  same 
imperturbable  gravity  at  her  father. 

"  Yes,"  he  growled.  "  Let's  go  down.  I'm  one 
of  those  animals  that  get  hungry  at  meal-time, 

68 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Boughton.     We  can  be  getting  acquainted  at  the 
table." 

The  little  page  stole  forward  and  opened  the 
door,  closing  it  again  noiselessly  behind  them. 
In  the  hall,  Watson  relieved  himself  of  something 
very  like  a  snort. 

"  Margy,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you'd  keep  that  kid 
out  of  my  way  in  the  evenings.  I'll  step  on  him 
one  of  these  times  and  break  him." 

There  hovered  about  her  lips  for  a  moment  a 
faint  promise  of  a  smile,  but  the  promise  was  not 
fulfilled.  Her  manner  was  new  and  curious  to 
David ;  it  perturbed  him ;  he  felt  that  he  dared  not 
offer  speech  with  her;  so  they  kept  silence  until 
they  were  seated  at  a  table  in  a  secluded  corner 
of  the  dining-room  and  Watson  had  given  an 
inclusive  order.  Then,  while  they  waited,  it  was 
the  older  man  who  spoke. 

"I  hope  you  can  be  comfortable  in  a  hotel, 
Boughton.  I'm  not.  I  detest  it!  Put  a  darky  in 
a  dress  suit,  and  stand  him  around  some  place 
where  I  can  see  him,  and  you've  got  me  queered." 
For  the  first  time  since  the  morning's  meeting 
he  indulged  a  laugh — a  deep,  booming  rumble  of 
sound  that  seemed  to  fill  the  room.  "  I'll  never 
forget  my  first  hotel  dinner  in  a  city.  Chicago,  it 
was,  over  thirty  years  ago.  I  went  to  a  hotel 
there  one  night  with  a  friend,  desperately  hungry, 
and  he  ordered  a  dinner  that  sounded  all  right. 
I  never  knew  how  it  tasted,  because  there  was  one 
of  these  swell  darkies  to  wait  on  us — the  first  one 

69 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I'd  ever  seen.  I  was  fascinated.  I  couldn't  help 
looking  at  him,  and  every  time  I  did  it  he  came 
stalking  up  and  stood  at  my  elbow  waiting  for 
orders.  I  couldn't  eat;  he  wouldn't  let  me;  and 
all  the  time  I  was  so  famished  I  was  ready  to  shed 
tears.  And  at  the  end  there  was  a  bottle  of  wine. 
I  had  to  miss  that,  too,  because  I  didn't  dare 
drink  it  on  an  empty  stomach.  Do  you  know 
what  I  did?  Just  as  soon  as  I  decently  could, 
I  got  away  and  went  out  to  a  cheap  chop-house 
and  climbed  up  on  a  high  stool  and  ordered  a 
good,  honest  feed  of  corned-beef  and  cabbage. 
I've  had  a  grudge  against  niggers  in  frills  ever 
since." 

The  first  course  of  the  dinner  came  on  then. 
As  the  meal  progressed  Watson  got  into  a  glow 
of  good-humor,  and  in  that  mood  he  was  a  rare 
talker.  He  divined  what  David's  interests  would 
be;  he  told  a  score  of  stories  concerning  the 
leaders  at  the  bar  of  the  State  —  stories  that, 
whether  grave  or  gay,  were  invested  with  the 
charm  of  an  incisive  wit.  But  he  was  not  a 
monopolist;  he  adroitly  induced  David  to  talk, 
now  and  again,  listening  to  his  ingenuous,  ex- 
uberant speeches  with  quick  sympathy.  Some- 
times other  guests,  on  entering  or  leaving  the 
room,  paused  by  their  table  for  a  friendly  word ; 
and  with  a  punctilious  courtesy  Watson  presented 
them  to  David. 

"Good  people,  all  of  them,"  he  declared  once. 
"I've  watched  most  of  'em  come  up  from  nothing 

70 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

at  all;  and  I've  seen  some  of  'em  fall  down  and 
then  get  up  again  more  than  once.  They're 
fighters,  these  Western  men;  and  I  swear  I  do 
like  a  good,  courageous  fighter.  It's  curious,  too ; 
I  suppose  you  haven't  found  it  out  yet  for  your- 
self, but  there's  nobody  so  just  and  generous  and 
merciful  as  the  born  fighter.  If  these  fellows 
have  anything  you  want,  all  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  ask  for  it." 

The  girl  took  no  part  in  the  conversation,  save 
now  and  then  a  soft  word  or  two  of  comment 
upon  her  father's  narratives.  She  did  not  once 
speak  to  David  directly.  But  she  did  not  ignore 
him ;  she  looked  at  him  frequently,  gravely,  when 
he  was  in  the  full  swing  of  an  enthusiastic  sen- 
tence. Her  glances  were  never  hurried,  but  de- 
liberately calm  and  self-possessed,  implying  that 
she  was  attending  to  what  he  said,  finding  it 
worth  attention.  Her  silence  was  not  displeasing 
to  him ;  he  attributed  it  merely  to  maidenly  shy- 
ness in  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  a  quality  that 
might  be  altogether  admirable. 

When  the  coffee  came  Watson  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  playing  with  his  cup,  fixing  David  with 
a  level  gaze. 

"Come,  now,"  he  said,  half  in  raillery,  half  in 
earnest,  "what  are  you  going  to  do,  Boughton? 
What's  your  real  reason  for  taking  up  law?  Are 
you  going  to  stop  with  being  a  lawyer?" 

David  waited  a  moment  for  his  answer  to  come 
to  him.     "  No,"  he  said,  slowly,  thinking  his  way 

7i 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

as  he  went.  "No;  I  don't  expect  to  practise 
merely  for  the  sake  of  practising  and  making  a 
living,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  I've  been  con- 
sidering the  best  use  I  could  make  of  myself — not 
for  myself  alone,  but  for  other  people,  too — and 
I've  thought  the  law  ought  to  be  my  chance. 
There's  a  lot  of  hard  work  to  be  done  in  the  West, 
one  way  and  another,  to  bring  our  life  up  to  the 
mark.  The  law  seems  to  me  to  be  about  the 
best  instrument  a  young  man  can  lay  his  hand  to 
if  he  wants  to  help  in  working  out  the  common 
salvation." 

When  the  answer  was  completed  he  felt  a 
pleased  satisfaction  in  it,  as  though  it  had  made 
clear  a  not  unworthy  attitude.  Watson,  too, 
seemed  struck  with  it;  he  meditated  upon  it  for 
a  time  quite  soberly ;  then,  with  a  quick  gesture, 
he  pushed  back  his  cup  and  squared  his  arms 
upon  the  table. 

"Eh?"  he  said,  heavily.  He  was  silent  again, 
and  his  eyes,  though  fixed  upon  David,  were 
unseeing.  "M-m-m!"  he  breathed,  huskily.  "I 
was  just  trying  to  think  how  long  it's  been  since 
I  was  nursing  that  notion  myself.  It's  a  good 
while.  But  I  used  to  have  it.  I  used  to  think  I 
was  going  to  be  a  sort  of  redeemer,  and  save 
the  world — or  the  best  part  of  the  western  hemi- 
sphere, anyway.  It's  a  wonderfully  easy  role  until 
you've  tried  it ;  but  it  gets  harder  then.  I  found 
it  so.  At  fifty-seven  I'm  just  waiting  around  and 
wondering  who's  going  to  come  and  save  me." 

72 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

It  was  spoken  quietly;  but  there  was  in  it  a 
note  that  David  had  never  heard  from  the  lips 
of  any  man — a  note  of  dull  but  passionate  hope- 
lessness. Throughout  the  hour  the  host  had  been 
fairly  radiant  with  geniality,  the  whole  of  his  big 
person  fat  with  it.  Now  it  appeared  that  that 
had  been  only  a  mask.  The  glow  had  gone  out  of 
his  deep  eyes;  they  had  become  as  the  eyes  of 
another  self — a  great,  sad-hearted  self,  that  had 
drunk  deep  of  bitter  waters,  and  had  learned  to 
set  a  light  value  upon  the  things  that  were  to 
David  so  priceless. 

"Yes,"  he  brooded,  "I  guess  I'm  about  done 
with  that — with  all  the  sharp  desires,  and  throes, 
and  pangs,  and  such-like.  I'm  only  asking  now, 
'Well,  is  there  anything  more  expected  of  me?' 
And  I  don't  much  care  whether  there  is  or  not." 

David  was  almost  aghast. 

"But  you  don't  mean,"  he  cried,  "that  your 
work  has  had  no  good  effect?  Surely  you  don't 
mean  that." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  has  or  not,"  Watson 
answered,  with  stolid  emphasis.  "  Who's  going  to 
say?  I've  found  out  that  the  effects  of  a  man's 
life  aren't  for  him  to  fix.  The  thing's  too  terribly 
intricate.  A  man's  lucky  if  he  can  go  puttering 
along  over  little  things  that  seem  real  to  him  just 
at  the  moment,  and  not  find  time  to  look  for 
effects.  That's  why  I  try  to  keep  busy.  I  used 
to  think  I'd  sit  down  by -and -by  and  enjoy  the 
peace  of  a  green  old  age,  and  all  that  sort  of 

73 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

thing,  after  I'd  got  through  with  my  work.  But 
I  wouldn't  quit  now  for  a  million  dollars.  I 
couldn't.  I've  got  to  keep  at  it,  and  just  trust 
to  luck  for  effects.  I  swear  I  don't  see  any  partic- 
ular effects  of  my  own  life." 

"Oh!"  David  cried,  in  quick  expostulation. 

"Yes,"  said  Watson;  "it's  perfectly  true.  I'm 
trying  not  to  take  it  too  hard.  I  hate  a  corn- 
plainer.  I'm  trying  to  be  satisfied  with  thinking 
that  that  was  the  lesson  life  had  for  me,  and  that 
I  had  to  learn  it,  to  have  the  conceit  taken  out  of 
me.     But  it's  been  an  ungrateful  learning." 

David  recovered  his  grasp  of  himself.  "  Maybe 
the  fault  is  with  your  own  inability  to  see  and 
measure  results.  It  can't  be  possible  that  there 
are  none.  Why,  if  a  man  does  his  work,  it's  bound 
to  have  an  effect;  nothing  can  stop  it.  Things 
would  go  to  smash  if  that  weren't  true." 

"Maybe,  maybe,"  Watson  returned,  wearily. 
The  confident  declaration  was  so  awesomely  im- 
mature, compared  with  the  pain  he  had  suffered 
in  his  deeper  probings  of  the  unfathomable  theme. 
His  interest  in  the  question  seemed  suddenly 
abated.  With  a  determined  effort  he  shook  him- 
self free  of  his  moody  aspect,  as  a  dog  shakes  off 
the  water  after  a  plunge.  "There!  Let's  call 
this  thing  off.  What  shall  we  do  to-night  ?  Shall 
we  take  in  a  theatre,  or  stay  here?" 

Before  the  question  could  be  answered  a  waiter 
leaned  over  Watson's  shoulder  and  spoke  quietly 
in  his  ear,  and  he  got  up  from  his  place. 

74 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  Excuse  me  a  minute,"  he  said.  "  I'm  wanted 
at  the  telephone.  You  two  wait  here  till  I  come 
back."' 

When  he  was  gone,  David  glanced  a  little 
timidly  at  the  girl.  She  was  toying  with  some 
broken  nut-shells  on  her  plate,  her  eyes  down- 
cast, her  features  in  repose.  He  wanted  to  speak 
to  her,  but  his  mind  had  become  a  blank.  Then, 
while  he  looked  at  her,  she  made  an  impulsive 
movement  in  her  chair,  turning  towards  him. 
So  far  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind  about  her 
he  had  thought  her  cold,  but  now  her  face  was 
brilliant  with  warmth  of  feeling,  her  eyes  glo- 
rious with  a  revelation  of  unsuspected  emotional 
capacity.  It  was  a  disclosure  that  dazzled 
him. 

"I  have  been  interested,"  she  said,  her  voice 
thrilling  with  life.  "The  men  I've  known  have 
been  all  so  intensely  engrossed  with  such  petty 
concerns.  It's  unusual  to  meet  one  who  has 
taken  time  to  dream  big  dreams.  I  wonder  if 
you  will  be  able  to  make  your  dreams  come  true. 
That's  the  real  test  of  a  man,  isn't  it?" 

It  was  not  a  woman's  speech;  no  other  woman 
of  his  acquaintance  had  ever  said  such  a  thing  to 
him.  Yet  it  was  full  of  a  rare  and  subtle  charm 
of  womanliness — a  charm  that  lay  less  in  the 
saying  itself  than  in  the  manner  of  it.  Had  a 
man  said  it,  it  would  have  been  only  a  common- 
place postulate,  inviting  argument,  yet  hardly 
worth  the  pains ;  but  coming  from  her  it  was  like 

75 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

a  confession  of  the  soul's  faith — something  that 
must  be  regarded  with  reverence. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  warmly;  "that's  the  test.  I 
mean  to  try  it,  too.  The  trial  ought  to  make  life 
worth  while,  even  if  I  fail." 

"Oh,  but  you  mustn't  fail!"  she  returned,  with 
frank  directness.  "Why,  that  would  make  you 
no  better  than  all  the  rest.  I  should  like  to  know 
one  man  who  isn't  afraid  of  himself  or  his  task. 
Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  think?  I  think  a 
man  is  sent  here  by  God,  and  appointed  to  do 
the  very  best  that's  in  him,  and  the  deadliest 
sin  he  can  commit  is  to  be  afraid.  A  man  is  just 
one  of  the  pledges  God  makes  to  the  world,  and 
it  depends  on  the  man  to  say  whether  the  pledge 
is  to  be  kept.  He  can't  keep  it  if  he's  afraid, 
because  fear  makes  his  work  at  the  best  only  a 
cheap,  shabby  counterfeit." 

She  stopped  as  suddenly  as  she  had  begun. 
Watson  came  lumbering  up  and  stood  by  his 
chair,  and  in  his  presence  she  became  once  more 
the  embodiment  of  impassivity.  Watson  hesitat- 
ed an  instant,  as  though  to  be  sure  he  was  not 
interrupting.  He  had  heard  nothing;  but  what 
he  saw  brought  an  odd,  quizzical  look  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Shall  we  go  up-stairs?"  he  suggested.  "You're 
through,  aren't  you?  I  want  to  sit  down  on 
something  of  my  own  size.  These  rickety  little 
chairs  keep  me  in  mortal  terror." 

When  they  were  again  in  the  parlor,  and  the 
76 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

page  had  been  dismissed  for  the  night,  Watson 
sank  into  his  seat  by  the  window,  sighing  with  a 
fair  semblance  of  content. 

"Margy,"  he  said,  "can't  we  have  a  little 
music?  Maybe  Boughton  would  like  it;  and  I 
know  I  should,  if  the  humor's  on  you." 

She  neither  assented  nor  demurred,  but  crossed 
to  a  recessed  corner,  drew  aside  a  curtain  and 
disclosed  a  harp. 

"Will  you  move  this  for  me,  Mr.  Boughton?" 
she  asked;  and  when  he  had  lifted  it  into  the 
room  she  seated  herself  before  it,  sweeping  the 
strings  in  a  fragment  of  delicate,  meditative  im- 
provisation; then,  without  a  word,  she  played 
Chopin's  mazurka  in  F  minor.  It  was  rendered 
with  more  than  technical  skill  —  with  an  artis- 
tic sensibility  and  responsiveness  which  made  the 
harmonies  come  from  herself  rather  than  from 
her  instrument.  At  the  end  she  waited  for  no 
comment,  but  spoke  quietly  over  her  shoulder. 

' '  Have  you  any  preferences  ?' '  she  asked.  ' '  Per- 
haps I  can  play  something  you  like." 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  like  what  you 
play.  I  haven't  even  an  amateur's  knowledge  of 
music,  except  as  life  out-of-doors  in  the  country 
is  a  sort  of  musical  education.  I  love  it,  without 
knowing  any  of  the  rules  for  it." 

"A  lover  is  more  appreciative  than. an  analyst," 
she  returned,  her  beautiful  fingers  weaving  about 
her  words  an  elaborate  tracery  of  airy  sound. 
"I've  thought  sometimes  that  music  must  have 

77 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

been  born  out  -  of  -  doors.  The  gods  never  lived 
in  houses,  did  they?  Some  of  the  best  things 
I  know  are  out-door  music.  Do  you  know  this?" 
She  touched  the  first  notes  of  Wehli's  "Rivulet." 
"Can't  you  feel  it?"  she  cried,  with  a  laugh 
through  the  melody.  "  It's  the  clear  water  about 
your  bare  feet,  when  you  used  to  'go  in  wadin'.' 
Isn't  it  good?"  She  checked  the  gleeful  measures 
suddenly.  "And  this,  too.  I  love  this,  because 
it's  what  it  pretends  to  be."  It  was  Men- 
delssohn's "Spring  Song."  "Yes,"  she  said  over 
the  last  notes;  "  I  like  that  better.  It's  a  lighter 
touch — more  like  air  than  water.  And  this  be- 
longs to  out  -  doors,  too,  I  suppose,  because  it's 
too  big  for  walls  and  roofs."  She  played,  then, 
Gottschalk's  "Solitude."  She  saw  his  growing, 
eager  interest,  and  it  seemed  to  awaken  her.  As 
she  rushed  into  the  strange  harmonies  it  was  with 
an  almost  rapturous  abandon;  the  music  was 
no  longer  a  thing  of  mechanism  or  performer,  of 
strings  or  fingers,  but  something  apart,  far  above 
the  means. 

"That's  one  of  my  comforts,"  she  said  at  last. 
"'Solitude';  yet  solitude  needn't  be  dreary,  nor 
pain  hurtful,  nor  loss  dreadful.  Isn't  that  plain 
enough?"  A  little  strand  of  her  hair  had  escaped 
from  the  confining  coils  and  lay  lightly  over  her 
forehead.  She  caught  it  back  into  place  with  a 
quick  gesture,  then  smiled  into  David's  honestly 
admiring  eyes. 

"I   must  play  you   something  now   that   my 
78 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

father  likes,"  she  said,  and  began  Leopold  de 
Meyer's  stately  "Triumphal  March,"  with  its 
robust  rhythm  of  the  tread  of  victorious  feet. 

Watson  had  been  sitting  indifferently  by ;  hear- 
ing, perhaps,  but  only  from  the  depths  of  apathy. 
He  was  brought  all  at  once  to  life ;  he  listened  as  a 
man  listens  only  to  the  momentous  things  of  ex- 
istence, his  nerves  tense,  his  eyes  on  fire. 

"Ah,  by  God!"  he  cried,  in  his  detonating  voice. 
"When  I  hear  that  I  know  why  music  was  made. 
It's  to  help  us  fight !  If  it  needed  to  justify  itself, 
it  could  do  it  with  that  one  thing  alone.  Margy 
talks  about  the  gods!  People  always  talk  as  if 
they're  creatures  that  dwell  far  off,  in  some 
place  unknown  to  us;  but  it  isn't  so.  Why,  I 
used  to  know  how  it  feels  to  be  one,  in  the  days 
before  I'd  met  my  first  defeat.  I  forget  now, 
though,  except  when  something  like  that  march 
jogs  my  memory;  then  I  remember  perfectly." 

The  girl  struck  one  resonant  arpeggio  that  was 
like  a  command  for  attention. 

"But  this  is  mine,"  she  said  to  David.  "It 
doesn't  make  the  gods  known  to  me,  but  it  helps 
me  to  feel  the  joys  of  mortality,  so  that  I  cease  to 
envy  the  gods.     Just  listen." 

There  followed  a  marvellous  rendering  of  the 
adagio  movement  from  Beethoven's  Sonata,  Opus 
13,  No.  8.  She  was  as  one  inspired;  she  played 
with  a  fervor,  a  depth  and  breadth  of  passion- 
ate appreciation  that,  as  he  heard,  seemed  to  lift 
him  to  her  own  high  level  of  understanding.     He 

79 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

did  not  know  what  she  played ;  but  he  knew  that 
his  thoughts  were  irradiated  as  with  the  glories 
of  night  and  day.  It  was  as  though  every  worthy 
impulse,  every  lofty  desire  he  had  ever  known 
came  floating  back  to  him  upon  the  bosom  of  a 
limpid,  sunlit  sea  of  sound.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished he  was  upon  his  feet  standing  at  her  side, 
meeting  her  upturned  eyes  with  his. 

She  arose  at  once.  "That  is  all,"  she  said. 
"Good -night."  And  before  he  quite  realized  it 
she  was  gone. 

Watson's  heavy  voice  boomed  rudely  through 
the  silence  that  followed  her  departure. 

"You  aren't  going  yet?  Sit  down.  It's  only 
half -past  eight.  I'm  going  to  smoke  now,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

He  was  a  hardy  smoker.  He  made  for  himself 
a  thick,  blue  atmosphere,  through  which  his  bulk 
loomed  dimly,  like  a  round  hill  through  low-lying 
mists.  After  a  time  he  waved  a  rift  through  the 
smoke  and  looked  out  with  a  new  benignity. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "What  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

David  had  but  one  thought  now ;  all  others  had 
been  rendered  obscure,  wholly  secondary,  in  com- 
parison with  the  vividness  of  this  new  impression. 

"She's  very  beautiful,"  he  said. 

"Of  course!"  Watson  returned,  heavily. 
"That's  part  of  her  life,  to  be  beautiful.  I  don't 
mean  that.  I  mean,  how  did  she  strike  you? 
She  talked  to  you,  didn't  she,  when  I  was  gone? 

80 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

What  do  you  think  about  her,  aside  from  her 
beauty — her  human  side?" 

David  laughed  in  foolish  embarrassment.  "I 
don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  entitled  to  speak. 
I  don't  understand  women  well  enough." 

There  was  a  faint  hint  of  weariness,  almost  of 
repugnance,  in  the  glance  Watson  gave  him. 
"You  don't,  eh?  I  wonder  what  sort  of  women 
you've  known.  It's  the  off-side  of  womanhood 
that  makes  men  say  that.  Fiddle!  It  doesn't 
take  any  great  power  of  penetration  to  under- 
stand an  honest,  right-hearted  woman.  There's 
never  any  mystery  about  honesty,  wherever  you 
find  it.  It's  the  dishonest  ones  that  hide  be- 
hind buttresses  of  mystery.  I  reckon  a  dishon- 
est woman  can  keep  the  devil  guessing." 

David  was  not  minded  to  wander  then  through 
the  chill  mazes  of  abstraction;  his  thoughts  were 
all  concrete.     "  Is  she  your  only  child?"  he  asked. 

"The  only  one  living,"  Watson  answered. 
"There  are  two  boys  dead  —  years  ago,  when 
they  were  little.     Yes,  she's  all  I've  got." 

"  I  don't  remember  that  my  mother  ever  spoke 
of  your  wife,"  David  pursued.  "Has  she  been 
dead  long?" 

Watson  retired  again  behind  his  veil  of  smoke, 
and  answered  from  the  safety  of  that  fastness. 
"  She  isn't  dead,  so  far  as  I  know,"  he  said,  dully. 

"Oh!"  David  cried,  in  quick  consternation. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  didn't  intend — " 

"It's  all  right,"  Watson  interrupted.  "No 
6  81 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

harm  done.  I'm  not  sore  over  it.  I  reckon  it's 
just  as  well  you  should  know;  it  may  save  worse 
confusion  by-and-by.  She  went  off,  six  or  seven 
years  ago,  with  another  man  —  a  fellow  who 
pleased  her  better,  I  suppose.  He  could  give  her 
more  of  what  she  wanted  than  I  could — prestige 
and  place  and  power,  and  all  that.  She  always 
coveted  exalted  social  standing,  and  now  she's 
got  it.  The  fellow's  filling  a  big  hole  in  Wash- 
ington, and  she's  in  glory.  I  haven't  heard  a 
word  from  her,  one  way  or  the  other,  since  she 
left  me.  That's  all.  It's  nothing  to  feel  strange 
about.  I  never  let  it  embarrass  me  with  my 
friends." 

His  manner  was  in  keeping  with  his  words. 
He  dropped  the  theme  quite  carelessly  and  offer- 
ed another.  But  the  talk  lagged  lamely  in  spite 
of  him,  and  David  soon  arose  and  took  his  leave. 

"I'll  be  in  in  the  morning,  then,"  he  said,  in 
parting.     "I'm  ready  for  work  now." 

"All  right,"  the  other  answered,  cordially. 
"Here;  better  take  my  key.  I  suppose  you're 
used  to  being  up  and  around  before  daylight; 
but  I  don't  get  to  the  office  till  about  nine.  Just 
make  yourself  at  home,  and  when  I  come  I'll  hunt 
out  some  books  for  you." 

David  walked  through  the  streets  like  a  man 
who  has  drunk  of  old  wine — floating,  not  thinking 
of  his  steps.  There  were  not  many  people  abroad, 
for  Omaha  is  still  soberly  provincial  in  its  amuse- 
ments.    The  lights  were  put  out,   save  in  the 

82 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

scattered  restaurants  and  saloons.  Here  and 
there  a  hack  or  coupe  was  drawn  up  against  the 
curb,  waiting  for  chance  patronage.  The  oc- 
casional electric  cars  sped  over  thoroughfares 
almost  deserted.  He  gave  no  conscious  heed  to 
these  appearances;  his  thoughts  were  thickly 
peopled  with  myriad  images,  belonging  to  the 
new  world  that  had  been  opened  to  him. 

When  he  entered  his  boarding  -  house  he  went 
up-stairs  to  his  room  and  lit  the  single  gas-jet  that 
swung  from  the  wall  above  the  cheap  wash-stand. 
It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  he  suddenly  realized 
weariness.  He  would  go  to  bed  and  be  fresh 
for  the  morning.  As  he  went  about  his  prepara- 
tions he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  reflected 
in  his  mirror,  and  paused,  looking  into  his  own 
eyes.  They  were  not  the  placid  eyes  of  home  in 
the  country,  but  quickened,  shining  with  excite- 
ment. 

"Oh,  it's  been  great!"  he  cried.  "She's  a 
wonderful  creature.  I  wish  Ruth  could  know 
her."  The  name  brought  a  fond  smile  to  his  lips. 
"Dear  little  Ruth!"  he  whispered,  happily.  He 
took  out  his  watch  and  snapped  open  the  back 
of  the  case,  where  a  photograph  lay  hidden. 
He  held  it  close  to  the  light  and  stood  for  a  long 
time  gazing  upon  the  tender,  true  face  of  his 
sweetheart.  He  was  not  trying  to  analyze  his 
emotions;  he  had  never  practised  that,  for  self- 
scrutiny  is  always  more  or  less  morbid,  while  he 
had  known  almost  no  mental  habit  save  whole- 

83 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

some,  spontaneous  impulse.     His  conclusion  was 
not  thought  out,  but  came  freely  of  itself. 

"  She's  a  fine  woman,  little  Ruth,  and  it  would 
do  you  good  to  know  her.  But  I  know  a  finer 
one!"  He  held  the  picture  to  his  lips  before 
putting  it  away;  then  he  undressed,  put  out  the 
light  and  stretched  himself  in  bed.  In  five  min- 
utes he  was  sleeping  soundly 


IX 


WHEN  David  reached  the  office  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  building  was  not  yet  aroused  to  the 
business  of  the  day.  The  janitors  were  still  busy 
in  the  corridors  and  rooms  with  mop,  broom,  and 
dust-brush.  It  was  a  place  of  echoes;  his  own 
footfall  upon  the  tiling  sounded  loud;  and  from 
the  floors  below  came  the  cheery  tones  of  the 
workers  as  they  chaffed  one  another. 

He  let  himself  into  the  big,  comfortable  room 
and  sat  down  in  the  silence.  It  was  just  to  his 
liking,  for  he  wanted  to  write  the  letter  for  which 
he  knew  his  mother  would  be  waiting.  He  had 
time  to  make  a  detailed  story  of  his  first  day's 
adventures;  when  it  was  finished  and  sealed  it 
made  a  thick  packet,  and  he  smiled  as  he  imagined 
the  satisfaction  of  the  mother's  heart.  All  was 
going  well,  he  had  told  her. 

Then  he  started  a  letter  to  Ruth ;  but  for  some 
undiscoverable  reason  that  was  not  so  easy  to 
write.  He  filled  many  sheets  with  various  be- 
ginnings, only  to  tear  them  impatiently  into 
strips,  and  stopping  often  between  whiles,  losing 
himself  in  a  tangle  of  thoughts  and  visions. 
His    first    page    was    still    unfinished    when  the 

85 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

stenographer  entered.  She  looked  at  him  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Good  -  morning !"  he  said,  gayly.  "A  new 
broom,  you  see.  I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  get  used  to 
these  hours,  starting  work  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning.  If  I  were  at  home  I'd  have  been  at 
the  plough  for  the  last  three  hours.  I  suppose  it 
doesn't  strike  you  as  a  lazy  life,  though,  does  it? 
That  machine  must  get  tiresome." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  it,"  she  smiled.  "It  isn't 
what  one  would  choose  for  a  whole  life;  but  I'm 
very  glad  to  have  the  work." 

The  morning's  mail  was  brought  in  then  and 
laid  upon  her  desk,  and  she  set  to  work  opening 
and  sorting  it.  She  was  not  much  given  to  talk- 
ing; she  met  David's  friendly  advances  in  smiling 
good  part;  but  the  initiative  was  left  mostly  to 
him.  Soon  she  took  her  place  at  her  desk,  and 
then  the  brisk  staccato  rattle  of  the  typewriter 
made  his  own  letter-writing  impossible.  He  lay 
back  in  his  chair,  waiting,  listening.  The  great 
building  was  awakening  at  last ;  feet  were  hurrying 
through  the  halls,  with  the  crass  accompaniment 
of  men's  voices,  slamming  doors,  and  the  whine 
of  the  elevator  cables. 

A  man  came  in  hurriedly — a  small,  swart  fel- 
low, aquiline,  nervous,  intense,  with  the  restless, 
hot  eyes  of  one  under  strong  excitement. 

"Watson  here?"  he  asked,  sharply.  "When 
will  he  be  here?"  When  the  question  was  an- 
swered he  sat   down  bv  the  table,   tossing  the 

86 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

piles  of  magazines  about  until  he  had  found  one 
that  suited  him;  but  then  he  only  flipped  the 
leaves  back  and  forth  idly,  drumming  upon  the 
table  with  his  wiry  fingers,  fidgeting,  twiddling 
the  heavy  seals  upon  his  watch-chain,  over- 
wrought and  ill  at  ease.  David  felt  a  sense  of 
relief  when  a  ponderous  tread  sounded  in  the 
corridor  and  Watson  entered. 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  had  not  affected 
him  outwardly;  he  was  slow,  burly,  morose.  He 
spoke  a  brief,  inclusive  greeting,  then  glared  in 
quick  anger  at  the  visitor. 

"  You  here?  What  do  you  want?  I  told  Hicks 
I  wanted  you  to  keep  out  of  my  way  entirely. 
Didn't  he  tell  you?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  the  other  answered,  hastily. 
"That's  all  right;  he  told  me.  It  won't  do, 
though.  You've  got  to  talk  to  me.  Come  in 
here  a  minute."  He  offered  to  pass  into  the 
private  office,  but  Watson's  bulk  was  immovable 
in  the  doorway. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Watson  said, 
harshly.  "It's  no  use.  You  contemptible 
hound!  I've  been  hating  you  and  biding  my 
time  for  ten  years,  waiting  to  get  a  chance  at 
you  to  even  things  up.  Do  you  imagine  I'm  go- 
ing to  let  loose  now,  when  my  chance  has  come? 
I  told  Hicks  yesterday,  and  I  tell  you  now,  that 
I'm  going  to  crush  you." 

"For  God's  sake,  Watson!"  the  little  man 
pleaded.     "Come  inside.     I   tell  you  you  must 

87 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

talk  to  me.  I'll  do  what's  right — there!  I'll 
let  you  dictate  the  terms — anything  you  want; 
but,  for  God's  sake,  don't  ruin  me  without  giving 
me  a  hearing.     Come!" 

Grudgingly,  against  his  will,  his  big  body  yield- 
ing part  by  part,  Watson  made  way  and  the  door 
went  shut  after  them.  It  was  a  stormy  inter- 
view, and  long  drawn  out.  An  hour  passed,  and 
they  were  still  at  it.  Watson's  voice  led  the  way 
at  first,  stern,  inexorable,  and  the  other  followed 
excitedly  behind,  like  a  little  dog  yapping  at  the 
heels  of  a  bellowing  bull.  But  as  the  hour  drew 
near  to  its  close  the  bellow  grew  less  and  less 
insistent,  and  the  smaller  voice  held  on  in  long, 
tense  periods.  At  last  there  was  silence;  then 
the  door  was  flung  open  and  the  visitor  hurried 
out  and  down  the  corridor. 

Watson  was  in  an  execrable  humor.  For  a 
long  time  he  paced  the  floor  of  his  room,  mutter- 
ing in  his  throat,  raging  at  the  things  that  got 
in  his  way.  By-and-by  he  called,  rudely,  "  Come 
in  here,  Bough  ton,  and  sit  down."  But  still  he 
kept  on  with  his  rolling  walk,  talking  to  himself 
in  incoherent  snatches.  The  steam  escaped  with 
a  hiss  around  the  valves  of  the  radiator,  and  he 
spoke  in  exasperation:  "Shut  off  that  damned 
sizzle,  will  you?"  A  man  was  at  work  in  the 
hall  outside,  whistling  shrilly.  Watson  broke 
out  in  violent  denunciation:  "If  I  could  get 
hold  of  that  idiot  I'd  put  his  mouth  into  a  shape 
that  couldn't  be  reconciled  to  a  whistle!"     Then, 

88 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

suddenly,   he  dropped  into  his  chair  and  gave 
way  to  a  thunderous  roll  of  titanic  mirth. 

"Oh,  it's  a  funny  proposition,  this  life!"  he 
said.  "  Boughton,  I've  played  the  fool.  I'm  not 
fit  to  be  trusted  in  a  man's  part.  What  do  you 
think  I've  done?  That  Bronson — that  fellow  that 
was  in  here — you  saw  him.  One  of  the  most 
unworthy  scoundrels  that  ever  breathed!  He's 
betrayed  every  man  that  ever  put  faith  in  him. 
He  betrayed  me  once — did  me  a  cruel  injury, 
ten  years  ago;  and  I  swore  I'd  be  even  if  I  gave 
up  my  life  to  it.  And  now,  just  when  I've  got 
him  in  the  shambles,  with  the  knife  against  his 
throat,  he  comes  in  here  and  talks  me  out  of  it! 
If  I'd  speak  ten  words  of  plain  truth  to  the  news- 
papers here,  he'd  be  ruined.  And  I  meant  to  do 
it,  too.  It  would  have  been  a  service  to  the  town. 
Boh!  It  makes  me  sick!"  His  great  body 
heaved  with  emotion;  he  snorted  with  self-dis- 
gust. Then  the  laugh  asserted  itself  again.  "Oh, 
well;  maybe  it's  just  as  well.  Damn  it  all,  I 
ought  to  have  taken  his  blood;  but  maybe  he's 
carrying  all  he  can  stand  without  that.  Death  '11 
come  soon  enough,  anyway,  and  square  every- 
thing— for  him  and  me,  too.  I  had  my  revenge, 
anyway.  I  called  him  a  Barmecide,  and  it  stump- 
ed him.  He  didn't  know  what  it  meant.  I'll  bet 
he  thought  a  Barmecide  was  some  kind  of  a  poi- 
sonous drink!" 

He  was  himself  again  after  that,  jovial,  kindly, 
almost  light-hearted. 

89 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"You  want  to  begin  your  reading,  don't  you? 
Well,  look  here;  how  will  this  strike  you  for  a 
school-room?"  There  was  another  room  opening 
from  his  own — a  smaller,  cosier  place.  A  broad- 
topped  desk  stood  by  the  one  window,  and  before 
it  was  one  of  those  enticing,  deep  chairs  to  which 
Watson  seemed  so  much  attached.  "You  can  use 
this  place,  if  you  want.  I  don't  need  it  often,  and 
you  can  be  quieter  here  than  any  place  else.  If 
you  like  it,  I'll  fix  you  with  some  books." 

He  came  in  presently,  carrying  a  thick,  calf- 
bound  volume. 

"  Here ;  you  might  look  over  this  for  a  few  days, 
and  see  how  it  agrees  with  your  digestion.  Then 
we'll  have  a  talk." 

He  went  out,  closing  the  door.  With  a  long 
sigh  of  satisfaction  David  sat  down  by  the  win- 
dow, opened  the  book  upon  his  knees,  and  his 
mind  bit  hungrily  at  the  first  lines : 

"  A  law  is  a  rule  of  action,  prescribed  by  the  supreme 
power  of  a  State,  commanding  what  is  right  and  pro- 
hibiting what  is  wrong." 

He  bent  to  his  reading  with  the  zest  of  one 
whose  mind,  after  long  delay,  has  been  admitted 
to  the  presence  of  its  mistress.  From  the  first, 
the  law  seemed  the  one  thing  for  which  his  un- 
derstanding had  been  -  fashioned,  and  for  which 
he  had  been  waiting.  Every  new  page  that  he 
turned  in  the  ponderous  volume  was  as  a  frag- 
ment of  the  great  mosaic  of  reason ;  and  the  frag- 

90 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ments  fitted  together  as  though  the  whole  had 
been  contrived  by  divine  will.  It  was  a  fair  and 
beautiful  plan  of  human  conduct;  as  it  slowly 
unrolled  before  him,  he  wondered  that  men 
should  find  life  puzzling  or  difficult  when  they 
could  have  recourse  to  such  a  sure  guide  over 
the  paths  of  perplexity.  He  was  moved  to  say 
this  to  Watson  at  the  end  of  his  first  week's 
reading;  but  Watson  only  scoffed. 

"  Oh,  certainly !  If  every  citizen  of  Omaha  was 
a  Blackstone,  we  could  fire  all  the  judges  off  the 
bench.  But  it's  well  to  be  modest.  We  haven't 
more  than  three  or  four  Blackstones  at  the  bar 
here,  and  they're  all  badly  overworked.  No, 
Boughton ;  it  won't  do.  We've  got  far  away  from 
that — from  elementary  right  and  wrong,  and 
justice  and  injustice ;  we've  got  ourselves  all  ball- 
ed up  in  law-making,  and  we've  forgotten  pretty 
nearly  everything  about  the  old  fashion  of  law- 
giving. Why,  you've  known  some  members  of 
the  Nebraska  legislature,  and  I  suppose  you've 
known  a  judge  or  two.  Great  stuff,  aren't  they? 
Great!  Well,  they  make  our  laws  for  us.  Poli- 
tics! That's  the  keyword  these  days;  not  right  or 
justice.  The  only  way  in  which  a  man  can  get 
himself  raised  to  a  position  where  he  has  au- 
thority to  decree  right  and  justice  is  by  going 
head  over  heels  in  debt  to  politics  and  politicians. 
I  tell  you,  the  best  service  I  ever  do  for  a  client 
of  mine  is  to  coax  him  to  keep  out  of  the  courts. 
I  mostly  tell  him  that  if  he'll  do  that,  his  chances 

9i 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

of  getting  justice  are  fair  to  middling;  but  if  he 
insists  on  going  to  law,  I  won't  be  responsible 
for  what  he  gets.  And  yet  it's  the  duty  of  every 
good  citizen  to  keep  up  a  devout  show  of  respect 
for  the  institutions!     Lord!" 

"Is  it  so  bad  as  that?"  David  laughed.  He 
had  learned  that  the  ingredients  in  a  Watson 
argument  were  usually  about  one-half  thought 
and  the  other  half  sheer  momentum.  Let  that 
big  brain  once  get  fairly  started  on  the  trail  of 
an  idea,  and  it  must  bump  against  the  end  before 
it  could  stop.  He  took  this  tirade  as  a  mere 
daring  adventure  of  the  intellect  into  an  unfre- 
quented and  dangerous  place. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Watson  retorted.  "The  trouble 
is,  there  are  too  many  trying  to  make  a  living 
at  it.  Omaha  has  three  hundred  of  'em — three 
lawyers  to  every  thousand  men,  women,  and 
children!  It  stands  to  reason  they  can't  all  live 
honestly.  We  could  kill  off  two  hundred  and 
fifty,  and  still  have  more  than  enough  to  attend 
to  the  legitimate  business.  Omaha  is  no  worse 
than  the  average,  either.  It's  getting  to  be  a 
profession  of  craft  and  cunning  more  than  of 
learning.  We're  drowning  spontaneous,  manly 
virtue  in  oceans  of  penal  statutes;  we're  obscur- 
ing justice  and  righteousness  in  a  fog  of  opinions 
and  dicta  and  precedents.  You  know  what  Walt 
Whitman  says,  talking  about  the  courts  estab- 
lishing right — 'As  if  the  right  might  be  this  or 
that,  according  to  decisions.'     Old  Walt's  book  of 

92 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

crippled  verse  is  a  better  text-book  on  justice  and 
equity  than  any  volume  of  law  that's  been  print- 
ed in  the  last  fifty  years.  It's  a  great  sight  more 
practicable,  too.  Honestly,  if  I  were  in  doubt  on 
a  plain  question  of  right  and  wrong,  even  in  big 
affairs,  I'd  sooner  take  counsel  with  some  pious, 
motherly  old  woman  than  with  any  lawyer  I 
know." 

He  was  upon  his  feet,  pacing  back  and  forth 
across  the  room,  moved  by  an  excitement  that 
was  more  than  rhetorical.  He  paused  before 
David,  squaring  his  massive  shoulders,  throwing 
out  his  hands  in  an  aggressive  gesture. 

"Why,  you  can't  correct  evil  by  making  rules 
for  righteousness.  You  can't  wipe  out  original 
sin  by  an  act  of  legislation  or  a  decree.  It's  a 
senseless  piece  of  business.  A  State  may  have 
tons  of  statutes  and  a  system  of  jurisprudence 
big  enough  to  sink  a  ship,  and  still  be  rotten  at 
heart.  No,  sir;  it's  not  law  that  counts,  but 
motives;  and  motives  can't  be  set  down  in  print. 
The  more  you  hedge  an  honest  man  about  with 
artificial  rules  of  conduct,  the  more  you  hamper 
him;  and  the  more  law  you  give  a  dishonest  man, 
the  stronger  the  buttresses  he'll  build  around  his 
iniquity.  That's  what  you've  got  to  learn,  my 
boy,  before  you'll  be  fit  to  practise  law." 

But  David  could  not  bring  himself  to  accept 
such  gross  logic,  even  though  it  assumed  the 
guise  of  a  fiat.  To  his  fresh  understanding  the 
spirit  of  the  law  was  as  a  pool  of  Bethesda,  in 

93 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

which  a  lame,  halt,  blind,  and  leprous  society  had 
but  to  plunge  and  be  healed.  In  his  utter  sim- 
plicity he  took  it  for  granted  that  all  men  must 
be  like  himself,  creatures  of  right  impulse,  eager 
to  be  cured  of  their  infirmities,  desiring  nothing 
so  much  as  light.  And  every  sentence  of  the 
sturdy  old  commentator  was  a  flash  of  clear, 
white  radiance.  He  could  hardly  wait  to  get 
to  the  end  of  a  page,  so  impatient  was  he  for  the 
next.  The  days  were  all  too  short.  More  often 
than  not  he  took  his  book  to  his  room  in  the 
evenings;  then  after  supper  he  would  stretch 
himself  upon  his  bed,  prop  the  volume  against 
his  lifted  knees,  and  read  far  into  the  night. 
He  could  not  get  enough  of  it. 

He  had  made  no  plans,  had  taken  no  thought 
for  anything  save  his  studies ;  this  mental  stimulus 
was  pleasure  enough.  With  his  abounding  vigor 
he  felt  no  need  of  unbending.  He  had  no  desire 
except  to  get  on  with  his  reading.  When  he  was 
hungry  he  ate,  and  when  his  senses  grew  weary 
he  slept.  Those  indulgences  were  all  the  relax- 
ation he  needed.  He  had  almost  no  acquaint- 
ances in  town;  social  life  would  not  be  likely 
to  make  any  demands  upon  him,  he  thought. 
He  got  so  wholly  engrossed  that  every  fact  and 
relation  which  did  not  pertain  to  the  law  appear- 
ed trivial,  even  unsubstantial.  His  mother,  the 
workers  on  the  farm,  even  Ruth  herself,  were  out 
of  his  thoughts  for  most  of  the  time;  only  when 
his  light  was  put  out  and  he  lay  in  the  darkness, 

94 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

waiting  for  sleep,  did  they  come  to  him  for  a  little 
undivided  attention;  and  then  they  appeared  as 
beings  from  another  part  of  his  existence.  He 
loved  them  dearly,  and  his  love  would  never 
abate;  but  it  was  written  on  another  leaf  of  his 
mind.  He  had  to  turn  back  to  that  leaf  now 
and  again,  to  refresh  the  impression.  It  was  not 
like  forgetfulness  or  heedlessness,  but  only  single- 
ness of  purpose  that  possessed  him — the  charac- 
ters on  the  new  leaf  before  his  eyes  were  absorb- 
ing, enthralling.  None  but  a  man  very  much 
alive  and  very  much  in  earnest  knows  that  in- 
tense susceptibility  to  the  present  moment  and 
its  interests. 


X 


HE  aroused  after  a  few  days  to  a  guilty  sense 
of  obliquity  in  having  neglected  his  dinner 
call.  His  life  had  held  few  of  the  responsibili- 
ties of  polite  formality.  In  the  country,  men  dis- 
charge such  duties  in  the  intervals  of  convenience, 
when  weather  or  season  suspends  the  labor  of  the 
fields.  A  social  debt  incurred  at  "  spring  plough- 
ing" may  not  fall  due  until  the  stress  of  corn- 
husking  is  past.  But  he  appreciated  the  new 
relations;  and  one  evening  he  dressed  with  care 
and  followed  his  card  to  Watson's  parlor. 

At  the  threshold  he  paused  in  sudden  em- 
barrassment. Three  callers  were  ahead  of  him — 
good-looking  young  fellows,  of  the  conventional 
dandy  type.  One  was  in  evening  dress;  all  were 
carefully  gotten  up.  Watson  was  not  present, 
but  his  daughter  sat  enthroned  on  a  couch  in  the 
midst  of  the  group,  a  queen  in  her  own  right — 
stately,  composed,  transcendently  lovely. 

Upon  his  entrance  she  arose  at  once  and  came 
to  greet  him ;  and  this  time  her  hand  showed  no 
reluctance  in  meeting  his*  it  was  given  freely. 

"  Mr.  Boughton !"  she  said,  cordially.  "  Really, 
this  is  very  good  of  you,  to  spare  an  evening  to 

96 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

me.  My  father  has  been  telling  me  how  busy 
you  are."  She  turned  to  the  company  and  pre- 
sented David  with  a  fine  grace  of  friendliness, 
then  made  a  place  for  him  at  her  side. 

The  other  men,  who  had  been  talking,  had  now 
fallen  silent.  He  knew  that  they  were  appraising 
him ;  and  he  knew,  too,  that,  judged  by  their  stand- 
ards, he  would  be  found  wanting.  His  person  and 
dress  set  him  quite  apart  from  them.  There  is 
no  creature  so  disconcerting  to  a  frank,  friendly 
country  lad  as  the  amateur  gentleman ;  and  these 
were  all  amateurs,  brought  up  from  obscure  lev- 
els by  the  lucky  accidents  that  befall  in  a  new 
community — a  timely  turn  in  real  estate,  a  strike 
in  the  corn-market,  or  a  deal  in  railway  building. 
They  were  dapper,  studiously  elegant,  making 
brave  essays  in  manners;  but  it  was  very  plain 
that  there  had  not  been  time  since  the  days  of 
their  rude  sires  for  an  ingraining  of  refinement. 
They  were  too  conscious,  too  watchful  of  them- 
selves lest  they  make  a  slip ;  at  the  same  time  they 
were  continually  guilty  of  that  worst  of  violations 
of  good  -  breeding,  the  assumption  of  an  air  of 
lofty  superiority  to  the  very  conditions  which 
had  made  their  present  life  possible.  Their  con- 
sciousness was  infectious.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  David's  thoughts  dwelt  upon  himself  and 
his  appearance,  with  an  effect  of  disparagement. 
Though  he  despised  himself  for  it,  it  persisted. 
His  hands  were  broad,  brown,  muscular ;  his  heavy, 
firm-fleshed  legs  seemed  grossly  prominent;  and 
7  97 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

when  he  tried  to  ease  their  posture  of  stubborn 
strength,  there  was  no  result  but  a  clumsy  awk- 
wardness. He  felt,  too,  that  his  comfortable, 
loose-fitting  cutaway  suit  of  gray  cheviot  was  al- 
most indecently  conspicuous  beside  those  politer 
blacks.  It  was  only  with  an  effort  that  he  shook 
off  this  mood  and  gave  his  attention  to  the  girl 
at  his  side. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  she  smiled.  "I've 
been  doing  single  combat  for  half  an  hour  against 
three,  and  I'd  like  to  rest  my  sword-arm.  I've 
been  defending  an  out-door  poem.  Won't  you 
help  me?     See!     Read  that." 

She  offered  a  copy  of  a  new  magazine,  laying 
her  finger  upon  an  eight-line  scrap  of  verse  that 
was  tucked  away  in  modest  seclusion  at  the 
bottom  of  a  page,  where  its  end  seemed  utili- 
tarian rather  than  literary — it  was  merely  a  stop- 
gap. But  David  read  with  mind  wide  awake  to 
its  witchery;  and  the  name  in  small  type  after 
the  last  line  kindled  in  him  a  spark  of  personal 
delight. 

"Why,  it's  Joe  Keller!"  he  cried. 

"What?"  the  girl  questioned.  She  bent  over, 
reading  the  name  aloud.  "'Joseph  Standish 
Keller.'  Joe  Keller?  Why,  Mr.  Boughton,  do 
you  know  him?" 

"Know  him!"  David  laughed.  "He's  about 
the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world.  He's  the  one 
man  I  do  know,  heart  and  soul.  He  lives  out  by 
Waterloo,  on  the  farm  next  to  ours." 

98 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"A  Nebraska  man?"  she  asked,  with  quickened 
interest.  "And  you  know  him!  Now  isn't  that 
delicious !  Oh,  I'm  very  glad  you've  come !  Won't 
you  tell  us  about  him?" 

"Yes,  do,"  one  of  the  young  men  seconded, 
politely.  "  It  would  be  interesting.  One  doesn't 
think  of  poets  as  beings  sustained  by  one's  own 
atmosphere — the  very  air  that  one  breathes  at 
the  daily  grind.  It's  rather  remarkable,  isn't  it, 
that  one  man  can  eat  bread  and  beef  and  suck  in 
oxygen  and  turn  them  into  a  poem,  while  an- 
other can  get  nothing  out  of  them  but  a  sordid 
capacity  for  operating  a  bank  or  a  packing- 
house?" 

The  saying  was  tossed  off  lightly,  carelessly; 
its  dilettantism  made  it  seem  vapid,  inane,  and 
aroused  in  David  a  feeling  of  dislike  for  the 
speaker.  The  three  laughed  together  over  the 
abortive  trial  at  humor.  Their  laughter  was  like 
their  speech  —  tentative,  conditional,  as  though 
they  nursed  the  fear  that  a  genuine  outburst  of 
mirth  would  be  an  altogether  unwarranted  emo- 
tional excess,  violating  some  mysterious  dictum 
of  "good  form."  The  vulgarian  is  always  in  ter- 
ror of  the  unwritten  laws  of  behavior,  and  his 
terror  is  greatest  when  he  is  endeavoring  to  obey 
them. 

"  I  dare  say  we're  too  intensely  practical  in  the 
West,"  one  of  the  others  suggested.  "The  pork- 
packer  hires  the  poet  to  write  verses  extolling 
the  superior  quality  of  his  hams  and  lard,  and 

99 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that's  about  the  extent  of  his  notion  of  encourag- 
ing art.  So  soon  as  we  see  a  spark  of  divine  fire, 
we  want  to  catch  it  on  a  wire  and  turn  it  into 
power  for  driving  the  wheels  of  business.  It's 
a  profanation,  of  course;  but,  then,  the  pork- 
packer's  money  keeps  the  poet's  stomach  filled 
and  keeps  the  spark  alive;  so  perhaps — " 

"Oh,  spare  us,  please!"  the  girl  interjected. 
"  I  want  Mr.  Boughton  to  tell  us  of  his  friend." 

The  three  fell  at  once  into  mild  silence,  regard- 
ing David  with  a  fair  semblance  of  well-bred  at- 
tention. But  their  empty  persiflage  had  ruffled 
him.  He  had  never  learned  the  pretty  trick  of 
altering  his  thoughts  to  meet  the  exigencies  of 
social  conversation  for  the  sake  of  making  clever 
effects;  what  he  thought  must  be  said  outright 
and  candidly,  or  not  at  all.  He  determined  that 
he  would  not  hold  up  his  honest  admiration  of  his 
friend  for  the  amusement  of  these  smartlings. 

"  No,  I  can't  tell  you  much  about  him,"  he  said 
to  Margaret.  "He's  a  splendid  fellow,  and  I 
know  you'd  like  him.  He'll  be  in  Omaha  some 
time  soon,  and  I'll  bring  him  to  see  you,  if  you'll 
let  me." 

"  Indeed  I'll  let  you !"  she  cried.  "  It  would  be 
a  real  pleasure." 

"  It's  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  find  you  defending 
his  poem,"  he  said,  simply.  "It's  worth  it,  be- 
cause he  never  writes  anything  he  doesn't  mean, 
and  that's  not  a  common  quality,  in  poets  or  any- 
body else.     He'll  be  glad  to  meet  you,  too.     I've 

ioo 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

written  to  him  about  you — about  my  first  night 
here,  and  your  music." 

"  Ah !"  one  of  the  listeners  broke  in.  "  Has  Miss 
Margaret  played  for  you,  Mr.  Boughton?  You're 
a  fortunate  man.  She  never  plays  for  any  of  us ; 
nothing  would  induce  her.  These  artists  have 
their  caprices,  you  know,  and  the  man  who's  al- 
lowed to  profit  by  them  ought  to  be  grateful." 

"It  isn't  always  caprice,"  she  said,  with  slow 
calm.     "Sometimes  it's  discernment." 

"Oh,  now!"  the  youth  protested.  "Don't  be 
too  severe  with  a  chap !"  He  arose  in  undisturbed 
good-humor ;  his  mates  followed  his  example,  and 
the  three  made  a  graceful  exit. 

When  they  were  gone,  Margaret  returned  to 
her  place  on  the  couch  at  David's  side,  where  she 
sat  leaning  idly  back  against  the  cushions,  regard- 
ing him  out  of  half-closed  eyes,  her  face  held  in 
inscrutable  quiet.  He  met  the  look  with  won- 
der, almost  with  distress,  until,  as  on  the  former 
meeting,  by  a  transition  too  swift  to  be  realized  at 
once,  she  flashed  into  animation,  her  wonderful 
eyes,  her  scarlet  lips,  her  hands,  her  very  attitude 
instinct  with  life. 

"I  was  driving  in  the  country  all  afternoon," 
she  said,  brightly.  "I  wished  more  than  once 
that  I  had  you  with  me,  to  interpret.  There  was 
so  much  I  didn't  understand  in  the  least.  I'd 
never  noticed  it  before.  I  think  it  must  have 
been  what  you  said  the  other  evening  about  out- 
door music  that  awakened  me." 

IOI 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

She  appeared  not  to  intend  it,  but  there  was  in 
her  words  a  flattery  delicate  and  elusive  as  the 
perfume  of  her  hair  to  his  nostrils.  She  had  been 
keeping  him  in  her  thoughts. 

"Isn't  it  strange,"  she  went  on,  "how  we  can 
look  for  a  lifetime  on  nature,  seeing  only  the 
coarse  shells  of  things,  until  something  happens 
to  clear  our  vision?  I've  driven  over  the  same 
road  a  hundred  times  before,  so  that  I  knew  every 
field  along  the  way,  and  almost  every  tree  and 
fence-post;  but  it  never  meant  anything  more  to 
me  than  so  many  acres  of  'view.'  I've  seen  a 
hundred  finer  views,  too — scenes  that  looked  as 
though  they  had  been  arranged  by  real  masters 
of  the  art.  These  low,  round  hills  have  always 
seemed  so  conventional  and  tame,  until  I  began 
to-day  to  wonder  whether  they  hadn't  a  meaning 
all  their  own.  Then  I  began  to  see.  You  can't 
blame  a  pastorale  because  it  isn't  a  fugue,  can  you? 
Why  isn't  a  stretch  of  rolling  prairie  as  good  as  a 
ragged  mountain?" 

She  paused,  smiling  into  his  eyes,  expecting  a 
reply.  For  a  moment  he  could  not  collect  his 
thoughts  clearly.  Whether  it  was  from  the  grace 
of  her  idea,  or  the  tacit  invitation  that  he  would 
share  in  it,  or  the  charm  of  her  manner,  or  the 
fascination  of  her  physical  presence,  or  all  com- 
bined, he  felt  himself  stirred  with  a  strange  de- 
light, vibrating  as  under  the  touch  of  a  hand  that 
grasped  the  full  range  of  his  emotional  powers. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  at  last,  when  he  was  com- 
102 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

pelled  to  say  something.  "  I  suppose  the  prairies 
mean  really  more  than  the  mountains.  They  do 
the  world's  work,  and  the  mountains  only  loaf 
and  look  magnificent." 

"That's  it!"  she  cried,  with  the  pleased  laugh 
of  a  child.  "A  mountain  signifies  nothing  but  a 
cataclysm,  and  the  world  couldn't  live  on  cata- 
clysms alone." 

Then,  with  another  of  those  sudden  changes  of 
mood  which  characterized  her,  and  which  became 
her  so  well,  she  fell  again  into  her  earlier  calm. 

"I  saw  something  to-day  that  impressed  me," 
she  said.  "  I  went  up  to  the  woods  above  Flor- 
ence, where  you  can  look  down  over  the  river,  and 
I  came  on  a  great  elm  that  had  been  killed  by 
lightning — all  split  and  broken  and  twisted.  I've 
seen  bare  forests  in  winter,  but  they  weren't  half 
so  striking  as  that  one  dead  tree  standing  solitary 
in  the  heart  of  a  wilderness  of  living  green.  I've 
been  trying  to  translate  it  into  music.  The  motif 
came  to  me  while  I  was  listening  to  the  sound  of 
the  wind  in  the  soft  leaves  and  in  those  leafless 
branches.  I  shall  play  it  for  you  some  day,  when 
it's  finished." 

"Oh!"  he  said,  with  surprise  and  pleasure. 
"Some  work  of  your  own?  I  didn't  know  you 
had  that  gift.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  known 
it,  though,  by  instinct." 

Her  evident  satisfaction  in  his  pleasure  encour- 
aged him,  and  he  went  on  with  his  habitual  frank 
honesty.     "I've  thought  that  musical  genius  is. 

103 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

the  very  highest  of  all ;  the  genius  to  create  music, 
I  mean.  It's  finer  than  poetry,  isn't  it?  Because 
nature  talks  to  us  in  music  and  not  in  words.  If 
you  try  to  put  a  thing  into  words,  there  are  so 
many  chances  for  getting  it  wrong;  but  music 
seems  always  true."  Then  he  thought  of  Keller, 
with  an  odd  sense  of  having  been,  somehow,  un- 
faithful to  the  genius  of  his  friend.  "Yet  the  one 
poet  I  know  is  as  true  as  any  man  could  be,"  he 
said,  quickly.  "  I  shall  be  impatient  to  have  you 
meet  him.  I  know  you'll  like  him ;  I'm  as  sure  of 
that  as  I  am  that  he'll  like  you.  He's  a  musician, 
too — a  violinist.  The  people  out  around  home 
don't  begin  to  understand  him.  They  think  he's 
nothing  but  a  freak.  He's  independently  wealthy, 
and  could  do  anything  he  pleased;  but  he's  built 
himself  a  little,  three -roomed  log -house  in  the 
woods  over  there  beside  the  Elkhorn,  and  seems 
just  as  happy  as  a  squirrel  in  a  hollow  tree.  I 
don't  believe  he  could  be  driven  away  by  anything 
short  of  artillery.  Oh,  I  know  you'll  like  him! 
I'll  bring  him  up  the  first  time  he  comes  to  town. 
Then  you'll  play  your  new  music  for  both  of  us, 
won't  you?" 

"  Perhaps,"  she  answered,  a  little  absently.  "  I 
sha'n't  promise  that,  though.  I  can't  play  for 
many  people;  I  don't  try  to  play  unless  every- 
thing is  right." 

Soon  the  town-clocks  sounded  a  chorus  of  warn- 
ing, and  he  arose  reluctantly.  She  gave  him  her 
hand  again  in  parting.     Its  touch  was  lingering, 

104 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

not  at  all  shy.  His  strong  fingers  closed  upon 
hers  and  held  them  firmly  while  he  spoke  his 
good-bye. 

"Come  and  see  me  whenever  you  like,"  she 
said,  gently.  "This  hotel  life  isn't  much  to  in- 
vite you  to,  but  now  and  then  you  may  meet 
some  pleasant  people." 

"  You  are  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "  People  whom 
you  find  enjoyable  must  be  something  out  of  the 
ordinary." 

She  laughed  at  him  with  her  eyes,  though  her 
lips  were  held  in  check.  "  You  are  praising  your- 
self— just  a  little,"  she  hinted. 

Then,  while  he  lingered,  Watson's  burly  tread 
came  along  the  hall,  and  his  burly  form  filled  the 
doorway. 

"Hello,  Boughton!"  he  said,  cordially.  "You 
here?  And  those  other  fellows  gone?  I  wish  I'd 
known  it.  I've  been  torturing  myself  for  an  hour, 
walking  around  the  billiard-table,  poking  with  a 
fool  stick  at  a  bunch  of  little  fool  balls.  I  detest 
billiards,  but  not  half  so  much  as  I  detest  those 
crowing  hens.  Did  you  meet  'em?  It's  no  secret 
between  Margy  and  me  how  thoroughly  I  abomi- 
nate 'em.  They  always  make  me  think  of  those 
witticisms  that  must  have  their  points  printed  in 
italics  or  you  lose  'em.  There  isn't  blood  enough 
in  a  whole  townful  of  such  chaps  to  fill  the  veins 
of  a  healthy  monkey.  Say,  sit  down  a  minute. 
Don't  go  yet.     I've  got  something  to  tell  you." 

He  took  his  favorite  seat,  easing  his  bulk  upon 
i°5 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

the  cushions;  but  then  he  was  slow  in  making  a 
beginning.  His  brain  held  tenaciously  to  its  last 
theme ;  it  had  a  bull-doggish  grip  on  everything — 
the  grip  of  the  fighting  intellect ;  it  was  loath  to  let 
go  of  an  idea,  however  unimportant,  until  it  had 
been  shaken  into  subjection. 

"  Those  dudes !"  he  growled.  "  I  mightn't  think 
so  hard  of  'em  if  I  hadn't  known  their  beginnings. 
Their  fathers  were  men  who  came  across  Iowa 
in  prairie-schooners  forty-odd  years  ago — great, 
big,  coarse,  honest  fellows  —  men,  every  one  of 
'em,  afraid  of  neither  life  nor  death.  They  laid 
the  foundations  of  the  West,  and  then  brought 
up  families  of  sons  to  be  ashamed  of  'em.  I've 
seen  that  young  Stone  go  across  the  street  in  the 
middle  of  the  block  to  avoid  meeting  his  dad  face 
to  face,  just  because  the  old  man  goes  without 
a  collar  and  smokes  a  cob  pipe  in  public.  He's 
worth  a  million  of  his  son  any  day.  He's  got 
brains,  for  one  thing ;  and  all  the  brains  the  young 
one  ever  had  were  painlessly  extracted  in  college. 
He  hasn't  character  enough  to  stop  a  worm-hole 
in  a  chestnut.  He's  one  of  the  thin-blooded  sort 
who  make  misanthropy  a  fad.  He  never  knew  a 
serious  conviction  in  his  life.  He'll  go  dawdling 
along  through  this  world,  just  as  he  is  now,  with- 
out a  particle  of  manliness  in  his  make-up;  and 
then  he'll  step  into  the  next  life  in  just  about  the 
same  way — finding  paradise  '  rawther  pretty  and 
interesting,  don't  you  know,  for  those  who  like 
that  sort  of  thing.'     Faugh!" 

106 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  sat  for  a  time  fondling  the  creasy  folds  of 
his  big  chin,  glowering  heavily ;  then  his  face  clear- 
ed of  its  cynicism,  settling  into  firm  lines. 

"  Maybe  the  evening  hasn't  been  lost,"  he  said, 
at  last.  "I've  been  talking  with  some  fellows 
down-stairs,  and  I've  about  made  up  my  mind  to 
go  into  the  senatorial  fight  this  winter.  What 
would  you  think  of  that?" 

"For  yourself,  do  you  mean?"  David  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course;  for  myself.  I've  been  think- 
ing some  about  it,  off  and  on,  for  the  last  fifteen 
years,  and  now  I  think  I'll  try  it.  I  reckon  I  can 
make  it.  I've  got  a  few  good,  stout  friends,  and 
I've  got  plenty  of  just  the  right  kind  of  foes  to 
help  me  along.  Half  the  game  is  to  be  sure  of 
your  enemies.  I've  always  fought  the  machine 
here,  and  this  looks  like  an  off  year  for  machine 
politics.  That  man  Bronson  would  be  against  me, 
for  one.  I  wouldn't  want  anything  better  than  a 
chance  to  fight  him  to  a  stand-still.  If  I  go  into 
it,  I'll  win.  I  was  just  trying  to  make  up  my 
mind  whether  it's  worth  the  pains." 

"  Worth  the  pains!"  David  cried.  "  To  go  into 
the  Senate  ?  Why,  I  thought  any  man  in  the  West 
was  ready  to  sell  his  birthright  for  a  place  there." 

"  Yes,"  Watson  answered,  dully,  "  I  guess  that's 
true  of  most  of  us.  It  was  true  of  me  once,  when 
I  had  a  tighter  hold  on  ambition.  But  I've  got 
past  that.  I'm  not  ambitious  any  longer.  All 
I'd  expect  to  get  out  of  this  now  would  be  some- 
thing new  to  think  about  for  a  while." 

107 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David  glanced  at  Margaret,  who  had  been  lis- 
tening silently.  What  he  saw  in  her  diverted  his 
thoughts  sharply  from  the  subject  in  hand.  She 
sat  erect,  attentive,  her  hands  knotted  together 
in  her  lap,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  ablaze.  She 
did  not  look  at  him ;  she  seemed  quite  oblivious  to 
his  presence ;  all  the  energy  of  her  being  was  con- 
centrated in  the  gaze  she  fixed  upon  her  father's 
face  —  eagerness,  desire,  rapt  absorption  of  her 
whole  mind. 

Watson's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  David's 
glance,  and  he  gave  a  short,  harsh  laugh. 

"  What  do  you  think,  Mag?"  he  asked.  "  That 
would  suit  you,  wouldn't  it?" 

She  relieved  the  rigor  of  her  posture  with  a  long, 
stifled  sigh,  settling  back  with  a  palpable  effort 
into  her  usual  placidity.  Her  voice  was  curiously 
out  of  keeping  with  her  recent  manner ;  it  betrayed 
no  more  than  a  casual  interest  in  the  theme. 

"  I  should  be  glad,  of  course.  It  would  mean  a 
great  deal  to  win  against  Carruthers  and  Bronson, 
and  the  rest.  But  I  wonder  if  you  would  better 
undertake  it,  after  what  Dr.  Johnstone  said." 

"  Oh !"  Watson  broke  out,  roughly.  "  Johnstone ! 
What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  A  doctor's  counsel 
is  all  well  enough  when  a  man  has  leisure  for  cod- 
dling; but  it  doesn't  signify  when  there's  anything 
to  be  done.  I'd  rather  die  to-morrow  in  a  fight 
than  live  forever  in  my  chair." 

"Good!"  David  cried.  He,  too,  loved  the  no- 
tion of  strife ;  but  his  was  only  the  swift,  raptur- 

108 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ous  lust  of  youth.  Though  he  thought  himself  at 
one  with  Watson's  temper,  he  would  have  been 
terrified  by  a  clear  glimpse  into  the  depths  of  the 
older  heart.  "So  you  think  you'll  try  it?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  guess  so,"  Watson  returned,  slowly.  "  I 
might  as  well,  I  reckon.  I'm  getting  deadly  tired 
of  this  way  of  living.  Nailing  my  soul  to  the 
cross;  and  for  what?  Building  a  reputation  as  a 
lawyer!  What,  in  the  name  of  God,  do  I  care  for 
that?  It's  all  very  well  for  boys  like  you  to  play 
with  such  pretty  visions  of  fame  and  dignity ;  but 
they  aren't  for  me.  I've  got  to  the  time  of  life 
when  I  must  have  something  firmer  to  hold  on  to 
— something  a  good  deal  more  substantial  than 
the  invertebrate  pride  of  reputation.  I've  fought 
here  until  there's  nothing  left  worth  fighting  for. 
I  need  a  change  of  scene  and  air  and  enemies.  I 
want  a  chance  to  pit  myself  against  some  bigger 
men.  That's  what  will  decide  me,  and  not  the 
honor  of  position." 

He  got  up  and  pulled  open  one  of  the  long  win- 
dows that  led  out  upon  a  small,  iron-railed  balcony 
fastened  against  the  brick  wall  of  the  building. 

"It's  too  warm  in  here,"  he  grumbled.  " Come 
outside  a  minute,  Boughton." 

As  David  arose,  Margaret  also  stood  up. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  my  room,"  she  said,  quiet- 
ly. She  was  trembling ;  her  face  had  taken  on  an 
ashen  pallor,  save  for  two  burning  flecks  of  red 
in  her  cheeks;  her  eyes  were  feverishly  brilliant. 

109 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Good-night,"  she  said;  and  with  that  she  was 
gone. 

"Your  daughter  is  ill,"  David  said,  anxiously; 
but  Watson  dissented  with  a  gesture. 

"No;  she's  all  right."  They  moved  out  to  the 
balcony  and  stood  together,  leaning  over  the  rail, 
looking  down  into  the  street. 


XI 


IT  was  a  quiet  scene  at  that  hour  of  the  night — 
quiet  in  its  almost  entire  absence  of  movement ; 
but  there  was  about  it  still  an  atmosphere  of  rest- 
lessness. The  carbons  in  the  swinging  arc-lamp 
directly  below  snapped  and  sputtered  under  their 
high  current;  the  motor  on  a  passing  car  called 
aloud  in  a  voice  full  of  the  pain  of  tension;  the 
heels  of  the  few  passing  pedestrians  clicked  sharp- 
ly against  the  stones.  Over  these  nearer  allegro 
notes  rose  the  far  largo  roar  and  rumble  of  the 
city's  palpitant  life — a  life  that  was  a  stranger  to 
deep,  healthy  repose,  knowing  only  the  stealthy 
quiet  of  a  sleeping  panther,  ready  to  start  awake 
at  a  whisper. 

Watson  dropped  his  head  heavily  upon  his 
arms,  that  were  lying  across  the  railing,  and  his 
great  body  shook  under  the  stress  of  a  stifled 
groan. 

"Oh,  Lord  God!  I  wish  I  had  something  or 
somebody  to  tie  to.  I'm  all  adrift.  I  don't 
know  what's  going  to  become  of  me."  He  started 
suddenly  erect,  striking  his  hands  together  in  a 
burst  of  impotent  passion.  "  Boughton,  do  you 
know  what  it  is  I'm  living  for?     It  isn't  the  things 

in 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I'm  doing,  or  hope  to  do,  or  to  be,  or  to  gain.  To 
hell  with  all  that!  I'd  be  glad  to  lay  it  all  down 
now,  and  to  wander  around  all  the  rest  of  my 
days  a  tattered,  homeless,  nameless  vagabond,  if 
I  could  sit  down  for  a  single  hour  and  talk  with  a 
woman  who's  capable  of  unselfish  genuineness — 
one  who's  large  enough  to  bear  the  sort  of  love 
that  doesn't  wear  a  tag  with  its  price  marked  on 
it  in  plain  figures.  I  don't  want  to  possess  her;  I 
only  want  to  look  at  her  just  once,  and  hear  her 
speak,  and  have  my  opinion  of  womanhood  re- 
stored." His  voice  fell  in  a  moment  from  its  full- 
toned  intensity  to  the  level  of  apathy;  his  lifted 
shoulders  settled  and  drooped,  as  though  they 
were  adjusting  themselves  to  a  heavy  load.  "  I 
don't  expect  to  find  her,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  exists." 

David  turned  upon  him  in  shocked  astonish- 
ment. 

"What?"  he  cried.  "You  can't  mean  that, 
Mr.  Watson." 

"Why  not?"  Watson  demanded,  raspingly. 

"  Because  it  isn't  true.  I  know  you  wouldn't 
say  it  if — if  things  hadn't  happened  wrong  with 
you.     It  isn't  true." 

' '  Ah !' '  Watson  breathed.  ' '  I  hope  it  may  never 
be  true  for  you.  It  doesn't  turn  out  true  for  all 
men,  apparently.  I  used  to  believe  in  women; 
God  knows  I  did.  And  God  knows  how  much 
that  belief  meant  to  me,  before  it  was  taken 
away.     Since  then,   all  I've  been  trying  to  get 

112 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

out  of  my  life  and  my  work  has  been  forget- 
fulness."  He  was  speaking  slowly,  painfully,  as 
though  his  every  word  was  a  burning  torture  to 
some  raw  wound  in  his  soul.  "I've  been  forced 
to  think  that  most  of  our  failures  and  disappoint- 
ments in  this  life  come  from  a  mistaken  exal- 
tation of  sentiment.  Our  beliefs  aim  so  much 
higher  than  the  facts  warrant.  Women  aren't 
different  from  men;  it's  only  a  piece  of  cheap 
gallantry  to  say  so — a  mighty  cheap,  flimsy  lie. 
Given  the  right  conditions,  and  every  virtue  we 
possess,  of  men  or  women,  comes  tottering  down 
into  the  mud.  You  can't  understand  that — you 
boy !  There  was  a  time  when  I  would  have  fought 
the  man  who  dared  to  say  it  in  my  hearing.  Oh, 
it  was  cruel — hellish  cruel — to  have  the  disillusion- 
ing come  to  me  through  my  own  wife!" 

He  drooped  forward  again  upon  the  rail  and  was 
silent,  brooding  upon  what  his  words  had  sug- 
gested, leaving  David  for  a  time  to  his  own 
thoughts. 

A  man  who  has  known  nothing  but  perfect 
health  is  quite  unable  to  sympathize  with  the 
ailing.  David's  normal  soul  stopped  far  short  of 
knowledge  of  the  other's  affliction;  the  sombre 
words  were  to  him  nothing  more  than  a  naming 
of  morbid  symptoms ;  the  real  pain  of  the  disease 
was  not  to  be  communicated  to  him.  He  was 
almost  ready  to  be  amused  by  Watson's  dark 
despair,  as  a  sound  and  ruddy  friend  smiles  at  the 
vagaries  of  an  invalid.  Surely  these  were  only 
s  113 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

the  casual  hallucinations  of  spiritual  distemper. 
David's  ready  imagination  produced  a  picture  of 
Ruth;  and  if  he  had  felt  so  much  as  a  tremor  of 
misgiving,  it  sank  to  rest.  By  a  quick  associa- 
tion of  ideas,  he  thought  of  the  girl  who  had  just 
left  them;  and  with  that  he  was  easily  satisfied. 
Watson  must  have  forgotten. 

"There's  your  own  daughter,"  David  said. 

Watson  turned  slowly  about,  bringing  his  face 
into  full  view  in  the  yellow  light  that  shone  from 
the  open  window.  It  was  a  face  not  good  to 
look  upon  —  stern,  cold,  granitic ;  and  its  hard 
rigidity  yielded  not  a  line  at  the  suggestion. 

"Yes,  there's  my  own  daughter,"  he  echoed. 
"I  was  thinking  of  her,  too,  when  I  spoke." 

David's  heart  quickened  its  beat;  his  lips  were 
hot  with  a  rising  rebellion  of  words.  "  You  don't 
mean — "  he  began ;  but  Watson  checked  him  with 
uplifted  hand. 

"We  won't  talk  about  that,  if  you  please,"  he 
said.  He  waited  a  moment,  continuing  his  steady 
scrutiny  of  the  young  face;  then  he  turned  away 
abruptly.  "  No.  If  the  sort  of  woman  I  mean 
exists  at  all,  she's  rare.  Sometimes  I  compel  my- 
self to  think  that  if  I'd  been  another  sort  of  man, 
I'd  have  found  her.  But  I'm  mostly  of  the  opin- 
ion that  she  doesn't  exist." 

"Other  men  have  found  them,"  David  cut  in, 
shortly. 

"  Other  men  have  found  what  they  have  found. 
I  can't  answer  for  them.     They've  taken  what 

114 


YES,    THERE  S    MY    OWN    DAUGHTER,     HE    ECHOED 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

they  could  get,  apparently,  and  have  been  satis- 
fied to  call  it  square,  without  prying  too  closely 
into  the  roots  of  things.  I  guess  it's  just  as  well, 
though,"  he  said,  with  a  long,  dull  sigh.  "  If  you 
want  to  match  motives,  I  suppose  there  isn't  one 
man  in  a  million  who  could  bear  the  test  of  being 
honestly  loved  by  a  woman  who  didn't  want  some- 
thing from  him.  After  all  I've  been  through,  and 
all  I've  seen,  I  reckon  the  best  thing  that  can 
happen  to  the  average  man  is  just  to  take  some 
woman  who's  decently  like  his  poor  notions  of  a 
wife,  and  live  along  with  her  in  orderly  domestici- 
ty, if  he  can  manage  it,  keeping  himself  faithful 
to  his  home,  being  fond  of  the  children  he  begets, 
doing  the  best  he  can  to  provide  for  them,  asking 
no  questions,  and  quitting  it  all  at  last  in  passion- 
less quiet.  If  a  man  can  get  along  with  that,  he's 
lucky." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Watson!"  David  ventured,  sincerely. 
"  I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that.  I'm  always 
sorry  to  hear  any  man  speak  lightly  about  women. 
I've  never  known  one  —  not  one  —  who  wasn't 
worthy  and  honest  and  true.  I  don't  believe  I'm 
alone  in  that,  either." 

For  answer  Watson  broke  into  a  deep,  booming 
laugh,  that  rolled  thunderously  back  to  them  from 
the  walls  across  the  street.  "All  right,  boy,"  he 
said.  "We'll  let  it  go  at  that.  That  was  only  a 
side  issue,  anyway.  The  main  point  to  -  night  is 
that  I'm  going  to  the  Senate.  I  rather  like  the 
idea,  too.     Maybe  it  '11  give  me  a  chance  to  be  of 

ii5 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

some  service  to  the  West.  At  any  rate,  you'll 
be  interested  in  the  preliminaries.  You'll  see 
some  of  the  men  who  are  the  guardian  angels  of 
Western  destiny.     They're  a  queer  lot." 

He  began  to  smoke  then,  dropping  into  an 
abstracted  silence  whose  surface  was  only  oc- 
casionally ruffled  by  monosyllabic  bubbles,  stirred 
up  by  David's  attempts  to  interest  him.  It  grew 
into  constraint  by-and-by,  and  then  David  took 
his  leave. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  his  room,  and  he 
undressed  at  once  and  went  to  bed.  But  he 
could  not  sleep.  The  events  of  the  last  few  hours 
lay  hot  upon  his  soul ;  he  could  not  put  them  aside. 
Over  all  the  other  pictures  that  arose  in  his  mind 
was  that  of  Watson's  daughter  as  she  had  stood 
before  him  when  he  first  bade  her  good-bye,  her 
hand  resting  lightly  in  his,  serene,  poised,  but  all 
alive  and  wondrously  lovely.  Then  there  follow- 
ed another  picture,  blotting  out  the  first — the 
picture  of  her  strange  perturbation  as  she  listened 
to  her  father's  declaration  of  his  new  purpose. 
Watson's  harsh  words  concerning  her  echoed  in 
his  ears,  giving  him  a  boding  uneasiness.  He 
could  not  make  it  out. 


XII 


THE  next  day  was  Saturday,  and  David  took 
the  afternoon  train  for  Waterloo.  As  he  dis- 
mounted from  his  car  and  stood  upon  the  narrow, 
littered  station  platform,  it  was  with  an  impression 
of  confusion.  The  little  village,  sprawling  its  lazy 
width  in  the  autumn  sunlight,  its  air  heavy  with 
somnolence,  seemed  at  once  familiar  and  strange ; 
the  shiftless  creatures  idling  in  the  streets,  almost 
every  one  known  to  him  for  many  years  by  name 
and  reputation,  appeared  now,  after  so  short  an 
interval  of  absence  and  contrasted  interests,  like 
figures  that  had  suddenly  stepped  out  of  a  dimly 
remembered  dream  or  story  and  been  galvanized 
into  movement  and  a  similitude  of  life.  Even  then 
the  illusion  was  hardly  complete;  he  had  seen 
puppets  in  a  Punch-and-Judy  show  more  strenu- 
ously alive  than  these. 

He  left  the  station  and  walked  up  the  formless 
road  that  made  the  centre  of  the  town's  in- 
activity. Acquaintances  recognized  him,  hailing 
him  listlessly  from  their  easy  postures  along  the 
edges  of  the  crumbling  walks  or  in  the  shelter 
of  the  wooden  store-awnings.  So  long  as  fair 
weather  continued  these  sidewalk  shows  of  in- 

117 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

dolence  would  go  on.  It  was  a  relief  to  come  at 
last  upon  a  man  who  was  on  his  feet  and  moving 
along  in  a  quick,  free  stride. 

They  halted  as  they  encountered,  and  the  vil- 
lager held  out  a  thin,  full-yeined  hand.  "Well, 
David?"  he  said,  with  a  tone  of  mild  inquiry. 

He  was  a  stooping,  pallid  man,  with  the  air  of 
one  who,  if  not  yet  aged,  was  still  solicitously 
watchful  of  the  years.  His  beard  was  untrimmed, 
dry,  straggling;  his  rusty  frock-coat,  always  so 
inseparable  from  the  figure  of  the  cleric,  had  once 
been  a  garment  of  ceremonious  dignity,  but  was 
now  nothing  more  than  a  pitiable  week-day  ex- 
pedient for  the  preservation  of  Sunday  decency. 
His  black  trousers  were  badly  knee-sprung  and 
shiny  upon  the  thighs;  his  hat,  his  very  neckwear, 
shared  in  the  presentment  of  a  cheap,  close 
poverty;  his  collar  was  yellow  with  age  and  un- 
skilful home-laundering,  and  its  saw-edge  caught 
irritatingly  at  the  long,  loose  strands  of  his  beard, 
so  that  he  had  acquired  an  habitual,  nervous, 
sidewise  jerk  of  the  head  in  freeing  his  chin  from 
this  fretting  grasp. 

David  greeted  him  with  the  accents  of  hearty 
liking.  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Kennedy.  I 
tried  to  get  time  to  call  on  you  before  I  went  away ; 
but  there  were  so  many  things — " 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course;  I  know,"  the  other  in- 
terrupted quickly,  with  a  manner  that  savored 
of  propitiation.  "It  was  good  of  you  to  think 
about  us.     Maybe   some   time — "     He   left   the 

n8 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

sentence  incomplete  and  struck  into  another. 
"  Do  you  find  the  change  in  your  labors  agreeable? 
Or  is  it — "  The  question,  too,  came  timidly  to  its 
end  in  the  middle,  as  though  from  a  long- con- 
tinued custom  of  holding  individual  opinions  in 
abeyance,  even  in  trifles.  He  had  passed  his  life 
in  the  labor  of  the  ministry  in  obscure  country  vil- 
lages, where  the  only  show  of  getting  along  de- 
pended at  bottom  not  so  much  upon  spiritual  zeal 
or  intellectual  acumen  as  upon  adroitness  in  fore- 
casting and  reconciling  himself  to  the  spiritual 
and  intellectual  aberrations  of  a  primitive  people. 
At  best  that  is  not  an  expansive  life,  nor  one 
calculated  to  stimulate  individuality.  No  doubt 
he  had  his  own  ideas;  but  they  were  usually  shy 
as  rabbits,  inclined  to  run  to  cover  at  the  first 
alarm  of  opposition  and  to  cower  tremblingly  in 
the  thickets  of  formless  speech. 

"Oh  yes,"  David  answered  to  the  implied 
inquiry.  "I'm  getting  along  famously.  One  of 
these  days  I'll  turn  out  a  credit  to  the  Elkhorn 
country,  and  you'll  all  be  recalling  stories  showing 
what  a  promising  boy  I  was.  How's  your  own 
work,  Mr.  Kennedy?"  he  asked,  with  a  return  to 
seriousness.  "  I  should  think  you'd  find  it  mighty 
hard  sometimes,  and  discouraging." 

"Oh  yes,"  the  clergyman  agreed,  with  a 
stifled  sigh.  "Yes,  that's  true,  in  the  moments 
when  I  get  impatient,  you  know — when  I  feel,  as 
most  men  do  now  and  then,  I  suppose,  that  I'd 
like  to  see  some  visible  results  of  my  work.     But  I 

119 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

try  not  to  be  impatient.  It's  a  bad  habit  to  form, 
don't  you  think  so? — a  little  incongruous,  per- 
haps, to  be  working  for  eternity  and  still  expecting 
immediate  returns  on  your  work.  I  had  some 
large  plans  when  I  was  a  young  man,  but  they've 
rather — rather  got  away  from  me.  I  haven't 
weakened — no,  no!  I  don't  mean  that  at  all;  but 
I've  quit  making  definite  plans  for  myself.  I'm 
learning,  instead,  to  adapt  myself  to  every  day, 
and  to  trust  that  there's  another  hand  than  mine 
that's  laying  out  the  plan.  I  think  that's  safest; 
don't  you?  There's  plenty  to  be  done,  without 
any  need  for  planning  ahead.  It  saves  a  good 
deal  of  disappointment,  too.  Well,  you're  in  a 
hurry,  aren't  you?  Give  our  love  to  your  mother, 
and  come  and  see  us  whenever  you  can." 

David  crossed  the  broad,  sandy  flat  of  common 
and  entered  the  office  of  the  hotel — a  bare,  dingy 
room,  wanting  in  every  attribute  of  cleanly  de- 
cency. Three  or  four  tousled  fellows  were  seated 
around  a  broken  table,  playing  a  noisy  game  of 
seven-up ;  others  of  their  kind  stood  around  look- 
ing on,  their  sallow,  inert  faces  deformed  by 
quids  of  tobacco  tucked  into  their  cheeks.  A 
frowsy  German  sat  humped  over  on  the  end  of  an 
empty  beer-cask,  holding  a  wretched,  lean  kitten 
helpless  in  the  grasp  of  his  great  paws,  amusing 
himself  by  blowing  pipe-smoke  into  its  nose  and 
eyes,  while  an  ugly,  crop-eared  bull-dog  crouched 
upon  the  floor  before  him,  watching  the  torture 
with   quivers   and   growls   of   fellow-feeling.     A 

120 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

dilapidated  barber's  chair  stood  in  one  corner, 
the  floor  for  a  yard  around  strewn  with  the  week's 
clippings  from  many  heads.  In  the  chair  sat 
Uncle  Billy,  submitting  his  snowy  mane  to  the 
perils  of  a  trimming. 

David  stepped  to  the  old  man's  side,  laying  an 
affectionate  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "  Hello, 
Uncle  Billy!"  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  "Well,  by 
Jupiter !  What  does  this  mean  ?  Why,  you  look 
like  a  born  dude." 

The  old  fellow  screwed  his  head  around,  peering 
up  with  twinkling  eyes.  He  chose  to  ignore  the 
need  for  a  greeting;  he  spoke  as  though  they  had 
not  been  parted. 

"Swell,  ain't  it?  'Mighty!  Think  you're  the 
only  one?  Watch  out  there,  Sam;  don't  take  off 
too  much.  By  jocks!  it's  so  short  now  it  'most 
makes  me  blush— like  I  didn't  have  nothin'  on  but 
my  flannels.  Tell  you  what  I'm  a  mind  to  do, 
Dave:  I'm  a  mind  to  raise  me  a  mustache,  an' 
one  o'  these  here  goat- waggles  to  my  chin.  If 
I  was  to,  I  don't  b'lieve  I'd  have  to  go  on  a 
crutch  no  more.  I'd  make  some  o'  you  young 
colts  take  the  sides  o'  the  road,  that's  what  I 
would."  He  sat  squinting  at  his  image  in  the 
cracked  mirror,  grinning,  twisting  his  shrivelled 
leathern  neck  for  better  views  of  himself,  preening 
with  an  innocent  vanity.  When  the  barber  was 
through  with  him,  he  paid  his  little  reckoning  and 
limped  from  the  chair.  "  Come  on,  boy,"  he  said. 
"  I  got  the  team  all  hitched,   over  back  o'   the 

121 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

stable.  We  better  be  startin'.  I  got  an  ar'nd  to 
do,  too." 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  light  road-wagon 
and  had  got  off  the  main  street  into  a  shady  by- 
way, David  was  content  to  keep  his  seat,  looking 
abroad  at  the  opening  vista  of  prairie  landscape, 
listening  to  the  swift  grind  of  the  wheels  upon  the 
sandy  road-bed  and  to  the  guileless  prattle  of  his 
companion. 

"We  got  the  wheat  all  in,"  the  old  fellow  said. 
"  We  planted  the  hill  eighty  two-three  days  after 
you  left;  an'  we  just  finished  the  bottom  quarter 
yeste'd'y.  Everything's  been  just  right.  Dan's 
got  a  notion  o'  puttin'  in  an  extra  eighty  where 
the  Alsike's  been.  I  don't  know  but  I  would,  too. 
The  clover's  been  there  three  years  now;  it  ought 
to  raise  better  wheat  than  any  o'  the  rest.  Wheat's 
always  good  prop'ty,  too.  A  man  ain't  never  in 
danger  o'  the  poor-house  long's  he's  got  a  few 
thousan'  bushels  o'  winter  wheat  in  his  bins. 
We're  goin'  to  ship  some  hogs  next  week ;  us  an' 
Stuart's  folks  together  can  make  up  a  car-load — 
fat  as  butter.  I  reckon  we'll  do  it,  if  the  price 
don't  go  down  too  much  before  Tuesday." 

They  came  presently  to  an  avenue  branching 
from  the  section-road,  and  there  Uncle  Billy,  with 
a  furtive  glance  at  David,  turned  his  horses  aside. 
"  Got  to  stop  at  the  creamery  a  minute,"  he  said, 
in  explanation.  "  Been  kind  o'  helpin'  'round 
amongst  the  women  folks  a  little,  bringin'  their 
cream  over  for  'em,  an'  I  got  to  go  get  some  o'  the 

122 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

cans  to  take  back."  But  an  alert  nervousness 
was  upon  him ;  he  was  not  giving  his  mind  entirely 
to  the  team.  The  early  dusk  was  settling,  blur- 
ring the  details  of  the  broad  landscape,  idealizing 
it,  as  though  it  had  received  some  finishing  touches 
from  the  brush  of  a  Corot.  Uncle  Billy  was  study- 
ing the  prospect  ahead  with  a  curious  interest,  as 
though  he  had  conceived  all  at  once  something  of 
an  artistic  passion.  At  last  he  drew  rein  sharply, 
breaking  into  a  gleeful  cackle. 

" Here  she  is!"  he  cried.  " Hop  out,  Dave,  an' 
help  her  up." 

"Why,  Ruth!"  David  called,  to  a  shady  figure 
by  the  road-side.  "Is  that*  really  you?"  He  flung 
himself  to  the  ground  with  alacrity,  stretching  his 
hands  towards  her  in  the  semi-darkness.  She  met 
him  with  a  laugh  mellow  as  the  unrestrained  song 
of  a  lark. 

"Really  and  truly!"  she  said,  brightly.  "Are 
you  in  doubt  about  it?  Help  me  put  these  away 
some  place,  and  then  I'll  argue  it  out  with  you." 

She  carried  a  pair  of  huge,  empty  milk-cans  that 
were  tied  together  by  the  handles  and  swung  over 
her  strong  shoulders.  David's  heart  warmed  to 
the  pastoral  simplicity  of  her  aspect.  In  the  soft 
twilight,  whose  lingering  glow  suffused  her  buoy- 
ant figure,  she  and  her  burden  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  free,  wild  prairie ;  she  was  an  essential  part 
of  the  scene;  she  could  not  have  had  a  better 
setting  for  her  luscious  beauty. 

He  stowed  her  cans  away  at  the  back  of  the 
123 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

wagon  and  helped  her  to  mount  to  the  rear  seat, 
then  climbed  to  the  place  at  her  side.  Uncle  Billy 
affected  a  jealous  dismay. 

"Well,  I  like  that!  Shakin'  the  ol'  man  that- 
a-way,  to  go  set  with  the  girls !  All  right,  young- 
ster, you  can  set  with  her,  if  you  want  to;  only 
don't  you  let  me  ketch  you  tryin'  to  hold  her 
hand  on  the  sly.  I  won't  stand  that.  No,  sir; 
I'll  make  you  get  out  an'  walk.  Jen!  Ged  ap, 
Phil!" 

David  laughed  again,  exultantly.  "  Not  on  the 
sly,  Uncle  Billy.  It's  going  to  be  done  fair  and 
honest,  so  anybody  can  see  that  wants  to  look." 
But  when  he  sought  to  take  possession  of  her  hand, 
it  was  stoutly  withdrawn  and  hidden  in  the  folds 
of  her  skirt. 

"No,  sir!"  she  said.  "  You  must  explain  things 
first.  I  want  to  know  why  you  haven't  written 
to  me?" 

"Why,  I  did  write,"  he  retorted.  "You  know 
I  did.     I  wrote  you  two  letters." 

"  They  weren't  letters,"  she  scoffed.  "  Just  two 
teeny  little  notes,  written  big — just  as  big  as  could 
be,  on  only  one  side  of  the  sheet.  No,  sir;  that 
doesn't  explain  at  all.  I  don't  call  a  thing  a  real 
letter  unless  it's  written  so  fine  I  have  to  squint  to 
read  it,  on  both  sides,  and  all  criss-crossed  up  and 
down.     That's  a  letter." 

He  hesitated  a  moment  before  attempting  an 
answer.  Her  chiding,  though  spoken  half-mock- 
ingly,  touched  a  delinquency  which  had  troubled 

124 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

him  not  a  little.  He  had  meant  to  write  exhaus- 
tively, telling  her  everything  about  his  new  life, 
and  making  daring  excursions  into  the  future  that 
was  to  be  theirs  in  common ;  he  had  counted  much 
upon  the  joy  it  would  give  him,  and  the  steadfast- 
ness of  purpose  he  would  gather  from  her  sym- 
pathy and  understanding ;  yet  the  days  had  slipped 
by  without  adequate  performance .  They  had  part- 
ed as  lovers.  No  confession  of  love  need  have 
been  ampler  than  his,  on  that  last  night  at  home. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  would  sit  down  at  his  desk, 
with  paper  before  him,  he  would  find  himself  over- 
whelmed by  a  curious  sense  of  insecurity  in  his  at- 
titude towards  her — an  insecurity  that  could  not 
be  stated  in  terms,  but  that  was  still  real  enough 
to  his  mind.  A  score  of  times  he  wished  devoutly 
that  he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  when  the 
chance  had  been  his ;  then  his  doubts  would  have 
been  dispelled.  But  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  take  it  for  granted.  Once  he  had  started  to 
put  the  plain  question  into  form  on  paper,  but  it 
had  eluded  him — his  ardor  had  suffered  a  distinct 
loss,  wandering  about  through  the  idle  forms  of 
syntax  and  rhetoric.  He  had  given  up  the  effort. 
He  would  wait  a  fit  time  and  ask  by  word  of 
mouth,  out  under  the  stars.  As  he  looked  upon 
it  in  his  moments  of  tender  retrospection,  his 
love  seemed  to  belong  to  the  soft,  starlit  prairie 
nights,  not  to  the  garish  city  days;  it  was  to  be 
declared  in  whispered  syllables  from  warm,  living 
lips,  not  by  the  poor  means  of  ink  and  pen  and 

125 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

paper.  He  had  determined  to  wait;  and  in  the 
mean  time  letter -writing  had  appeared  unavail- 
ing, profitless.  Now  that  he  was  in  her  presence 
again,  his  irresolution  seemed  fantastic,  unjus- 
tifiable, and  he  put  it  aside  with  a  feeling  of  grate- 
ful relief. 

"Wait  till  I  go  back,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  write 
you  a  letter  that  '11  make  talk  in  the  post-office. 
You'll  see!"  He  felt  for  her  hand  in  its  hiding- 
place,  and  this  time  he  was  suffered  to  find  it  and 
to  gather  it  into  his  own  warm  clasp.  "  Now  tell 
me  about  things.  You  haven't  written  to  me  at 
all,  not  even  a  teeny  little  scrawl.  How  have  you 
been  ?     What' s  been  happening  to  you  ? " 

"Oh,  piles  and  piles  of  things!"  she  cried.  "I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you.  I've  been  awfully  busy. 
Ma  hasn't  been  a  bit  well,  and  I've  had  to  cook  for 
the  men,  and  do  most  of  the  chores  around  the 
house — splitting  wood,  and  feeding  the  pigs,  and 
building  a  new  brush-fence  around  the  chicken- 
yard,  and  looking  after  the  milk,  and  bringing  the 
cream  down  to  town,  and — oh,  everything!  And 
it's  awfully  funny,  too.  I  used  to  think,  when  I 
was  a  little  girl  and  had  to  help  ma,  that  when  I 
grew  up  I'd  be  bound  /  wouldn't  do  any  of  that 
kind  of  work.  I  was  going  to  sit  on  a  cushion  and 
sew  a  fine  seam — I  was  going  to  be  a  lady,  and  not 
know  a  thing  about  work.  But  now  that  I  have 
it  to  do,  I'm  just  as  happy  and  satisfied  as  I  can 
be.  Don't  you  think  that's  funny?  I  wouldn't 
trade  places  with  any  queen  I  know." 

126 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  Wouldn't  you?"  he  asked.  "  Well,  now,  that's 
what  they  call  a  coincidence.  I  was  just  think- 
ing I  wouldn't  trade  places  this  minute  with  any 
king  /  know." 

Uncle  Billy  spoke  over  his  shoulder  with  clumsy 
jocularity.  "An'  I  wouldn't  swap  with  any  two- 
spot  in  the  whole  dum  deck.  Keep  it  up !  I  ain't 
listenin'.  You  can  say  just  what  you're  a  mind 
to,  an'  I  won't  never  let  on  I  hear  a  word."  He 
ducked  forward  on  his  seat,  chuckling,  wagging 
his  head  in  self -appreciation.  The  girl  was  in  no 
degree  abashed  by  his  pointedness ;  such  honesty 
as  hers  was  not  to  be  easily  frightened. 

"Now  you  tell,"  she  said  to  David.  "What 
have  you  been  doing?" 

"Oh,  heaps  and  heaps  of  things,"  he  answered, 
in  laughing  imitation  of  her  phrase.  "  I  feel  as  if 
I've  got  to  be  almost  a  man  of  the  world  already, 
Ruth.  It  hasn't  taken  half  as  long  as  I  thought 
it  would."  For  the  rest  of  the  way  he  beguiled 
her  with  a  lively  rehearsal  of  his  experiences  in 
office,  boarding-house,  and  street.  The  one  thing 
above  all  others  of  which  he  had  meant  to  tell 
her  was  his  meetings  with  Margaret;  but  now 
that  the  chance  had  come  he  held  back  from 
it.  The  story  was  not  for  the  alert  old  ears  on 
the  front  seat,  he  told  himself;  he  would  keep  it 
for  Ruth  alone.  He  did  not  mention  Margaret's 
name.  There  was  plenty  besides  to  talk  about, 
for  he  was  a  good  observer  and  a  graphic  narrator. 
Ruth  was  a  good  listener,  too,  and  Uncle  Billy 

127 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

more  than  once  betrayed  his  own  attention  to  the 
story. 

"Oh,  you're  a  smart  boy,"  he  broke  in,  by- 
and-by.  "Next  thing  we  know  out  here  you'll 
be  learnin'  to  lie  an'  cheat  an'  all  them  kind  o' 
things.  You'll  be  gettin'  too  high-toned  for  our 
set." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,"  David  returned.  "  I'll 
come  back  to  the  farm  when  I  see  the  first  signs 
of  that." 

"  I  hear  you  say  so.  I've  heern  lots  of  'em  say 
so.  I  reckon  everybody  feels  that-a-way,  one 
time  or  other,  yit  there's  always  a  middlin'  fair 
crop  o'  liars.  Tell  you  what  I  found  out :  I  found 
out  that  lyin's  a  good  deal  like  chawin'  tobacker — 
don't  taste  right  good  at  first,  but  you  git  after 
while  so  you  kind  o'  like  the  smart  on  your  tongue, 
an'  then,  pretty  soon,  first  thing  you  know  you 
can't  git  along  without  it  nohow." 

"Yes,"  Ruth  broke  in,  with  eager  irrelevance. 
"And  besides  all  I've  told  you,  I've  made  myself 
a  new  dress,  too — a  perfect  beauty !  Every  stitch 
my  own  work.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 
It's  just  as  good  as  if  I'd  bought  it  and  paid 
twenty-five  dollars  for  it,  but  it  only  cost  me  six 
dollars.  Isn't  that  thrifty?  Oh,  you've  no  idea 
what  a  miserly  person  I'm  getting  to  be!  I'm 
just  terrible!" 

With  such  talk  the  time  sped  on  airy  wings. 
They  came  all  too  soon  to  the  end.  As  he  helped 
her  from  the  wagon  before  the  gate  at  her  home, 

128 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

he  held  her  hand  for  a  moment  between  his  own, 
reckless  of  Uncle  Billy's  enjoying  oversight. 

"I'll  come  over  to-morrow  for  a  little  while," 
he  said.  "I  must  go  back  to  Omaha  on  the  af- 
ternoon train.  I  sha'n't  have  much  time.  I'll 
have  to  talk  over  some  home  business  with  Dan 
in  the  morning  —  about  the  new  quarter  we're 
buying  —  but  I'll  come  over  on  my  way  down, 
if  it's  only  for  an  hour." 


XIII 

HIS  mother  awaited  him  on  the  porch  at  home. 
If  Uncle  Billy's  welcome  had  lacked  emotion, 
hers  more  than  atoned.  She  was  as  impatient 
to  get  her  arms  about  him  as  though  his  absence 
had  been  long  and  full  of  peril.  As  she  leaned 
upon  him,  walking  through  the  hall  to  the  kitchen 
— the  family  assembly-room — she  was  like  a  girl 
in  her  unrestrained  pleasure. 

"It's  good  to  have  you  back  again!"  she  cried, 
softly.  "We've  all  been  busy  enough;  but  the 
house  always  seems  empty,  even  in  the  busiest 
time,  with  any  of  my  family  gone  away.  I'm 
glad  you're  home!" 

"Dear  little  mother!"  he  whispered,  his  cheek 
against  her  hair.  "  Do  you  think  I'm  not  glad 
to  be  here?"  He  glanced  quickly  around  upon 
the  bare  walls  and  simple  furnishings.  The  table 
was  spread  in  readiness  for  his  late  supper;  a 
pot  of  coffee  steamed  cheerily  on  the  back  of  the 
stove;  from  the  door  of  the  oven,  standing  ajar, 
issued  a  confusion  of  delicious  odors.  His  glance 
came  back  to  his  mother's  face,  that  beamed  with 
homely  joy,  and  there  was  a  queer  catch  in  his 
voice.     "Sure  I'm  glad  to  be  here!" 

130 


THB    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

She  hovered  about  him  while  he  ate,  heaping 
his  plate  with  the  choicest  things  from  store-room 
and  pantry,  glad  when  she  saw  his  unfailing 
appetite,  rejoicing  in  the  hearty  accents  of  his 
voice,  losing  much  of  what  he  said  in  the  simple 
delight  of  hearing  him  talk  and  knowing  that  he 
was  hers  again. 

His  Sunday  hour  with  Ruth  was  not  a  shining 
success,  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  impatient 
lover.  The  day  was  filled  with  the  needful  dis- 
cussion of  the  affairs  of  home.  In  quitting  the 
labor  of  the  fields,  he  had  not  meant  to  step 
from  under  his  share  of  the  responsibility  of 
directing  affairs.  Dan,  the  elder  son,  was  a  giant 
in  capacity  for  execution,  but  by  tacit  consent 
David  was  looked  upon  as  having  the  adroiter 
mind,  the  subtler  understanding,  and  as  being  the 
better  endowed  contriver  of  ways  and  means.  On 
this  Sunday  there  was  a  long  conference  between 
the  brothers  over  the  new  extension  of  the  farm. 
Dinner-time  found  many  points  still  undeter- 
mined. It  was  well  after  one  o'clock  when  David 
said  his  good-byes  and  set  off  for  his  coveted  talk 
with  Ruth. 

Disappointment  awaited  him.  The  Milford  fam- 
ily was  assembled  in  force  in  the  sitting-room, 
lethargic  after  its  mid-day  feed.  Ruth  was  there, 
to  be  sure,  a  vision  of  wholesome  loveliness,  but 
around  her  was  a  noisy  swarm  of  younger  fry. 
Providence  had  prospered  the  family  in  no  way 
more  than  in  the  gift  of  offspring;  between  Ruth 

131 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

and  the  babe  at  the  mother's  breast  were  eight 
younglings  of  the  house,  in  all  stages  of  freckled, 
tow-headed  awkwardness. 

Mrs.  Milford — a  worn,  child-ridden  relic  of  fair 
womanhood  —  was  walking  the  floor  as  David 
entered,  hushing  the  infant  in  her  arms.  Ruth 
sat  by  a  sunny,  south  window,  a  book  of  childish 
tales  open  upon  her  knee,  her  soft  voice  weaving 
a  spell  of  enchantment  around  the  souls  of  three 
or  four  of  the  smaller  folk  grouped  upon  the 
floor  about  her  feet.  In  opposite  corners  of  the 
room,  seated  upon  the  floor,  their  sturdy  backs 
against  the  wall,  were  two  'cublike  boys,  glaring 
at  each  other  in  an  avid  longing  for  conflict. 
The  father  of  the  household — a  big,  red-shirted, 
red-bearded,  red -cheeked  specimen  of  out -door 
manhood — lay  stretching  his  massive  length  upon 
a  couch,  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  his  deep  chest 
heaving  under  the  stress  of  his  guttural  snoring. 

Ruth  glanced  up  with  a  bright  blush,  letting 
her  book  fall  shut.  A  chorus  of  remonstrant 
voices  rose  from  those  around  her,  and  the  half- 
sleeping  babe  awoke,  squirming  for  release  from 
the  mother's  arms,  squealing  a  protest. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  David  said,  helplessly. 

"Never  mind,"  Mrs.  Milford  returned,  with  a 
feeble  attempt  at  reassurance.  "I'll  take  her  out 
to  the  kitchen  and  get  her  to  sleep.  These  chil- 
dren are  making  too  much  racket,  anyway.  I  was 
just  startin'  to  do  it  when  you  come  in.  Don't 
bother.     Set  down." 

132 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David  drew  a  chair  to  Ruth's  side,  striving 
against  the  rise  of  his  embarrassment. 

"Mother's  had  one  of  her  dreadful  sick-head- 
aches to-day,"  Ruth  said.  "I  haven't  got  my 
dinner  dishes  washed  yet.  I've  been  keeping  the 
children  quiet  till  she  could  put  Annie  to  sleep, 
and  then  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  some  of  them  to 
go  to  sleep,  too.     They  won't  often  do  it,  though." 

David  glanced  uneasily  around  upon  the  clam- 
orous family.  "  Why,  what's  the  matter  with  you, 
Dick?"  he  asked;  but  Ruth  answered  for  the  boy. 

"  He  and  Ben  have  been  fighting,  and  they're 
being  punished.  They  have  to  sit  still  in  their 
corners  for  an  hour.  It's  the  worst  punishment 
we  can  contrive  on  a  nice  day  like  this." 

Dick  drew  the  back  of  his  mottled  hand  across 
his  snub  nose  with  a  liquid  sniff.  "  Little  beast!" 
he  challenged.  "  He  stole  the  goodies  I  had  pick- 
ed out  o'  my  walnuts  at  dinner." 

"You're  a  liar!"  Ben  retorted,  strenuously. 
"You  eat  'em  yourself.  I  saw  you  hoggin'  'em 
down  on  the  sly  after  ma  told  you  to  quit.  You 
was  cry  in'  with  a  belly-ache,  anyway." 

"  Boys !"  Ruth  cautioned.  "  You  mustn't  speak 
another  word  to  each  other — not  another  word! 
It's  perfectly  disgraceful  the  way  you  carry  on. 
Now  I  want  you  to  be  still." 

"Aw,  you  hush  up!"  said  the  rebellious  Ben. 
"You  ain't  my  boss." 

"  Ben !"  she  cried,  with  a  pretty  authority.  The 
sleeping  man  stirred  on  his  couch,  threatening  to 

133 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

awake,  and  the  youngster  subsided  into  a  sulky- 
silence.  From  the  kitchen  came  the  shrill  screams 
of  the  baby  and  the  weary  voice  of  the  mother. 
The  children  at  Ruth's  feet  were  pulling  at  her 
skirt,  pleading  that  she  would  go  on  with  the  in- 
terrupted reading,  and  refusing  to  be  put  off  with 
promises.  It  seemed  to  be  a  time  when  a  lover 
was  a  being  quite  superfluous,  and  David  sat  shift- 
ing his  feet  uneasily,  making  courageous  efforts  at 
speech,  but  realizing  an  ignominious  failure.  With 
no  conscious  thought  of  his  own,  a  grotesque  fancy 
came  to  him.  In  a  day  not  long  gone  that  inert, 
fleshy  heap  on  the  couch  had  laid  ardent  love  at 
the  feet  of  the  pale,  worn  woman  who  now  walked 
the  kitchen  floor,  quieting  her  fretful  babe,  her 
aching  head,  no  doubt,  nursing  some  dull  thoughts 
of  life  and  romance. 

"Go  on  with  your  reading,  Ruth,"  he  begged. 
"I'll  just  sit  and  look  at  you  for  a  while."  And 
she  complied  willingly. 

His  hour  was  almost  gone  when  Mrs.  Milford 
came  in  again,  bearing  the  dead  weight  of  the 
child,  heavy  with  sleep.  She  passed  through  into 
an  adjoining  bedroom,  then  returned,  brushing 
her  shaking  hands  over  her  disordered  hair,  pulling 
at  her  calico  gown,  making  a  brave  essay  at  a  hos- 
pitable smile. 

"  I  declare,  these  young  ones  most  tucker  me 
out  sometimes,"  she  said,  with  a  listless  pa- 
tience. "  Seems  like  the  days  I  get  these  terrible 
headaches  is  always  the  very  time  they  pick  on 

134 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

for  their  worst  cuttin'  up.  Now,  Ruthie,  you  gi' 
me  the  book.  I'll  amuse  'em,  an'  you  go  talk  to 
Dave  awhile." 

"No,  no,"  the  girl  answered.  "You  must  go 
and  lie  down  yourself.  You  must,  because  you 
need  it.  There's  not  much  to  do.  I'll  get  through 
all  right." 

David  looked  at  his  watch  and  arose.  "It's 
time  I  was  starting  for  my  train,  anyway,"  he 
said,  and  picked  up  his  hat. 

Ruth  walked  with  him  through  the  shrub- 
grown  yard  and  down  to  the  road.  They  stood 
for  a  few  moments  with  the  gate  between  them. 
She  smiled  into  his  devouring  eyes,  and  he  laid 
his  hands  upon  hers,  that  held  to  the  tops  of  the 
weather-worn  gate-pickets. 

"You're  a  good  girl,  Ruth,"  he  said.  "I  wish 
I  could  have  talked  to  you  a  little  while;  but  I'll 
fix  it  next  time.  I  sha'n't  be  so  busy  at  home 
when  I  come  again." 

There  was  a  strident  outcry  at  the  house,  a  riot- 
ous outbreak  of  boyish  taunt  and  defiance,  as  Dick 
and  Ben  found  their  release  into  the  yard  at  the 
end  of  their  imprisonment.  Quick  feet  scuffled 
down  the  walk,  and  the  freckled  Dick  appeared, 
climbing  like  a  squirrel  to  a  place  on  the  top  of 
one  of  the  gate-posts,  grinning  down  at  David 
with  an  impudent  intrusion  of  friendliness. 

"Say,  Dave,"  he  shrilled,  "I  was  down  to  the 
pick'rel-hole  yiste'd'y,  an'  I  got  one,  too.  Golly, 
but  he  was  a  whopper !    Only  he  got  away,  though. 

135 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  got  my  line  all  twisted  around  a  darned  old 
stump.  If  it  had  been  Ben,  I  bet  he'd  've  just  set 
down  an'  blubbered;  don't  you?" 

"  It's  no  use,  Ruth,"  David  said,  with  a  helpless 
laugh.  "I'll  have  to  wait.  I  must  go  now;  but 
I'll  write  to  you.  Good-bye,  girl."  He  took  her 
hand  between  his  own,  striving  to  make  the  press- 
ure mean  what  he  would  have  said.  "  Good-bye, 
Ruth." 


XIV 

UPON  reaching  the  office  early  Monday  morn- 
ing, David  found  the  inner  room  strewn  with 
a  tangle  of  newspapers,  that  lay  over  table,  desk, 
and  chairs,  and  on  the  floor  was  a  high  mound  of 
the  debris.  Watson  had  passed  his  Sunday  there, 
that  was  plain,  and  a  hasty  scrutiny  of  the  inky 
head -lines  revealed  the  reason.  His  candidacy 
was  blazoned  forth  with  all  the  perfervid  rhetoric 
of  provincial  journalism  —  the  purple  -  and  -  rose 
color  of  favor,  the  soberer  grays  and  browns  of 
neutrality,  and  the  lurid  reds  and  yellows  of  oppo- 
sition. As  always  in  such  cases,  there  had  been 
a  hasty  overhauling  of  his  "record,"  and  the  re- 
porters' discoveries  were  spread  unsparingly  to 
view.  Nothing  had  been  accounted  too  sacred 
for  exploitation.  The  motives  of  the  Western 
press  are  not  lower  than  those  of  the  East,  per- 
haps, but  its  methods  are  wofully  uncouth,  and 
here  was  an  exhibition  of  the  worst  that  impu- 
dence could  accomplish  in  advertising  itself.  Wat- 
son's life,  both  public  and  private,  was  chronicled 
with  a  shameless  particularity ;  one  sheet  went  so 
far  as  to  flaunt,  under  double-column  "scare- 
head,"  the  story  of  his  domestic  misadventure, 

i37 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

presenting  it  with  a  commingling  of  brutal  direct- 
ness and  hardly  less  brutal  innuendo.  Condem- 
nation was  unsparing,  and  laudation  was  even 
more  revolting  in  its  gross  excess.  There  was  in 
the  whole  matter  an  effect  as  though  Watson's 
person  and  character  had  been  smirched  and  foul- 
ed with  ink.  As  David  read  the  color  mounted 
to  his  cheeks  as  with  personal  resentment. 

While  he  was  in  the  thick  of  it,  Watson  came  in. 
At  sight  of  the  boy's  perturbed  face  his  deep  eyes 
shone  with  amusement. 

"  We  belong  to  the  public  now,  my  son,"  he  said. 
"  There's  no  kick  coming.  A  man  who  courts  no- 
toriety must  make  up  his  mind  to  take  it  when  it 
comes.  I'm  not  pitying  myself  a  little  bit,  so 
don't  you  waste  any  feeling  over  it." 

"It's  coarse,"  said  David. 

"  It's  human  nature — the  very  humanest  kind. 
I  suppose  the  reason  it  doesn't  affect  me  is  be- 
cause I'm  human  myself.  I  found  that  out  long 
ago."  He  stood  by  one  of  the  windows  fronting 
Farnam  Street,  looking  down  upon  the  people  who 
were  going  to  their  day's  business,  moving  like 
columns  of  excited  ants.  His  hands  were  clasped 
loosely  at  his  back ;  his  strong  legs  were  spread  far 
apart ;  his  face  was  impassive,  as  though  he  stood 
apart  from  personal  concern  in  the  matter.  When 
he  spoke  again  it  was  with  entire  dispassionate- 
ness. 

"  It's  singular  how  a  man  can  be  reconciled  to 
conditions  that  he  wouldn't  have  chosen  for  him- 

138 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

self.  We'd  have  a  hard  time  of  it  if  we  couldn't 
adapt  ourselves  to  conditions.  When  I  was  young 
I  used  to  think  I'd  have  a  decent,  orderly  life. 
The  one  thing  I  wanted  above  all  else  was  quiet. 
Yet  fate  has  given  me  a  turbulent  career,  from 
first  to  last.  That  isn't  very  strange,  of  course; 
but  what  amazes  me  is  the  way  I've  grown  ac- 
customed to  it.  I  don't  dream  of  rebelling  any 
more." 

He  turned  away  from  the  window  and  rolled  to 
his  desk,  dropping  into  his  big  chair.  "It's  all  in 
a  lifetime.  If  things  came  just  as  we  wanted,  it 
wouldn't  lessen  the  mystery  any;  I  reckon  that 
would  only  make  it  more  inexplicable."  He 
laughed,  forcing  a  half-hearted  show  of  indiffer- 
ence. "  I  give  it  up,  boy.  The  mystery  has  thick- 
ened from  the  beginning,  year  after  year,  until 
I  positively  refuse  to  be  mystified  by  anything 
again.  I'm  just  going  to  take  things  as  they  come, 
after  this.  If  there's  a  Providence  in  it,  its  work- 
ings are  beyond  me.  I  might  just  as  well  quit 
worrying  and  settle  down  to  this  Senate  fight." 
His  laugh  gained  somewhat  in  genuineness.  "  I 
wonder  what  Providence  thinks  about  American 
politics.  I  suppose  the  ways  of  the  professional 
politician  are  as  much  of  a  mystery  to  the  Al- 
mighty as  His  ways  are  to  us.  We'll  get  a  lot  of 
fun  out  of  it,  anyway.  You'll  be  interested  in 
the  kind  of  men  we'll  have  to  deal  with  from  now 
till  January." 

That  was  quite  true.  They  were  an  interesting 
J39 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

lot,  those  politicians.  Upon  the  public  declara- 
tion of  Watson's  design,  endorsed  as  it  was  by- 
powerful  local  interests,  they  gathered  from  the 
four  corners,  as  prairie- wolves  assemble  in  response 
to  the  first  shrill  hunting-cry  at  night. 

Day  after  day,  from  early  morning  until  late  at 
night,  the  office  swarmed  with  a  noisy  horde,  dirty, 
dishevelled,  reeking  with  the  evil  odors  that  arise 
from  the  decay  of  civic  respectability.  We  hardly 
seem  to  realize  the  grotesquery  of  it,  but  there  is 
hardly  a  campaign  in  America  whose  practical 
conduct  is  not  apparently  left  to  the  meanest 
and  lowest  of  the  people.  From  the  first,  decent 
citizenship  had  comparatively  little  to  do  with 
furthering  Watson's  prospects;  decent  citizenship 
came  shyly  in  once  in  a  while,  spoke  a  quiet 
word,  and  went  quickly  away,  leaving  the  field 
clear  for  the  doings  of  the  dirty,  the  dishevelled, 
the  malodorous.  David  wondered,  and  his  won- 
der deepened  as  the  days  passed;  but  Watson 
could  not  or  would  not  take  it  in  serious  part. 
Only  now  and  again  he  grew  weary  of  it,  and  at 
such  times  he  spoke  his  thoughts  freely  to  David's 
private  ear. 

"The  nation  will  wake  up  some  day,"  he  said 
once.  "The  theory's  lovely,  but  the  practice  is 
damnable.  We're  hypnotized;  the  glitter  of  the 
idea  of  freedom  and  equality,  and  all  that  sort 
of  rot,  has  put  us  in  a  trance,  so  that  we  don't 
feel  the  fangs  that  are  biting  at  our  very  vitals. 
The    regicide    isn't    any    more    of    a  menace  to 

140 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

society  than  the  American  professional  politi- 
cian." 

David's  apprehension  did  not  go  so  far  as  that. 
He  had  observed  the  mob  as  mere  social  curios- 
ities rather  than  active  agents  of  evil — as  most  of 
us  do,  while  preserving  an  easy  sense  of  security, 
as  though  feeling  that  our  institutions,  springing 
somehow  out  of  the  divine  idea  of  government, 
must  rest  upon  foundations  that  are  proof  against 
disintegration. 

"They  seem  harmless  enough,"  David  said. 
"If  I  had  charge  of  'em,  I'd  keep  'em  washed 
and  combed  a  little  better;  but  I  don't  see  where 
they're  dangerous." 

"  That's  it !"  Watson  growled.  "  That's  always 
the  cry.  I  tell  you,  rottenness  is  never  harmless ; 
there's  death  in  it.  No  nation  can  live  forever, 
of  course.  Ours  will  come  to  an  end  some  time, 
like  all  the  rest.  When  it  happens,  it  won't  be 
the  result  of  war  or  great  catastrophe ;  it  '11  come 
from  this  deadly  curse  of  professional  politics. 
Just  look  at  these  louts  that  are  hanging  around 
here  now !  We  shouldn't  trust  'em  to  manage  the 
finances  of  a  chewing-gum  slot-machine ;  yet  we 
sit  by  and  let  'em  engineer  the  primaries  and  the 
conventions  and  the  campaigns.  They  name  our 
officers,  and  they  dictate  our  policies  and  our 
laws,  and  it  isn't  once  a  year  that  folks  like  you 
and  me  give  a  serious  thought  to  it." 

"Maybe  once  a  year  is  enough,"  David  sug- 
gested, lightly.     "  Don't  things  get  along  pretty 

141 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

well?     Every  day  isn't  a  crisis,   but  when  the 
crisis  comes  it  gets  settled  all  right." 

"Oh,"  Watson  scoffed,  "that's  a  shiftless  way 
to  talk.  That's  what  the  sot  says,  and  the  mor- 
phine-eater, till  after  a  while  the  coroner  gets  him. 
Half  the  work  of  the  courts  is  a  sort  of  coroner's 
work — looking  after  the  dead,  and  clearing  up  the 
wreckage  of  our  fool  adventures  in  self-govern- 
ment." 

But  that  was,  after  all,  only  a  tentative  con- 
cern. When  David  asked  the  plain  question, 
"What's  to  be  done  about  it?"  the  concern  van- 
ished. 

"  Done  about  it  ?  Nothing.  We'll  just  keep  on 
pawing  up  the  earth  and  screeching  about  equality 
till  offended  Heaven  puts  a  stop  to  it.  We  aren't 
equals  in  brains,  or  virtue,  or  capacity  for  service 
or  evil ;  to  pretend  that  we're  equals  at  all  is  noth- 
ing but  a  lazy  expedient  for  saving  trouble.  No- 
body believes  it;  everybody  knows  that  he  isn't 
the  equal  of  any  other  one  man  on  earth,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  whole  bunch.  Oh,  well,"  he 
laughed,  "I  don't  care.  What's  the  difference? 
If  folks  like  to  pretend  that  they  can  read  the  rid- 
dle of  creation  with  one  eye  shut,  let  'em  pretend. 
I'm  not  going  to  worry  over  it.  This  pack  of  un- 
washed canaille  can  help  me  to  a  seat  in  the  Sen- 
ate, and  I'm  going  to  let  them  do  it." 

There  were  days  together  when  that  mood — a 
sort  of  intellectual  abandon — ruled  and  moved 
him ;  days  when  his  present  personal  purpose  rose 

142 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

singly  above  all  else,  dwarfing  every  item  and 
every  factor  that  entered  into  it.  On  those  days 
he  seemed  heart  and  soul  at  one  with  the  unlove- 
ly horde  that  beset  him — jovial,  companionable, 
suffering  his  hand  to  meet  their  soiled  clasp,  his 
eyes  to  meet  their  furtive  glances,  with  a  more 
than  tacit  confession  of  his  need  and  dependence. 
If  he  felt  any  sense  of  humiliation,  it  did  not  show 
outwardly.  He  was  like  every  other  man  who 
resigns  himself  to  any  form  of  the  idea  of  destiny ; 
he  was  merely  a  chip  floating  down  stream,  and  it 
was  not  for  him  to  object  that  the  current  was 
muddy.  Those  were  his  worst  hours — hours  when 
his  own  stubborn  will,  that  would  have  struggled 
still  towards  some  remote  ideal  of  integrity,  was 
laid  aside,  while  his  weary  soul  sported  with  the 
elusive  phantasms  of  "practical"  politics,  as  a 
child  sports  with  flitting  fireflies  on  a  summer 
night,  laughing  to  see  the  darkness  pricked  by 
little  stabs  of  light,  grasping  at  them  eagerly,  but 
grasping  only  the  darkness.  Those  were  not 
times  of  clear  vision,  of  volition,  of  definite  intent ; 
rather  were  they  times  when  the  strength  of  his 
hold  upon  himself  was  relaxed — times  of  dull  re- 
action after  the  long,  grim  tension  of  a  resolute 
life.  They  marked  a  distinct  breaking-down  of 
moral  tissue.  He  seemed  himself  half  conscious 
of  this,  while  lacking  the  nerve  to  combat  it. 
David,  observing  him  curiously  day  after  day, 
saw  that  beneath  the  jocund  assumption,  the 
brusque  hail-fellow  air,  the  almost  reckless  friend- 

143 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

liness  with  which  he  met  the  crowd,  there  lay  an 
ineffable  scorn  and  contempt,  a  loathing  of  him- 
self no  less  than  of  them. 

And  there  were  times  when  this  repugnance 
burst  all  barriers  of  restraint  and  revealed  itself 
to  the  full. 

One  morning  in  the  third  week,  when  the  elec- 
tion of  legislators  was  past  and  the  canvass  was 
settling  into  definite  form,  there  was  a  conference 
between  Watson  and  two  of  his  angels  of  destiny. 
As  it  progressed,  David,  though  deep  in  his  book, 
was  made  aware  that  it  was  not  likely  to  end  in 
peace.  Watson  was  developing  some  portentous 
symptoms;  he  was  beginning  to  choke  with  ex- 
plosive mutterings,  sounding  from  somewhere  be- 
low, like  a  soda-geyser  making  ready  for  eruption. 
The  eruption  came  at  last  in  a  burst  that  defied 
doors  and  walls. 

"Go — to — the — devil!  Understand,  once  for 
all,  that  you  get  no  hush-money  out  of  me,  by 
whatever  name  you  call  it.  If  you've  got  any- 
thing to  tell  about  me,  tell  it  and  be  damned.  I'm 
not  buying  anybody's  silence.  I  don't  want  si- 
lence. If  the  people  are  going  to  send  me  to  the 
Senate,  I  want  them  to  know  the  truth  about  me 
first — the  plain  truth,  and  all  the  truth.  Can't  I 
make  you  idiots  understand  that?  Can't  you  get 
it  out  of  your  heads  that  I'm  running  some  sort  of 
a  confidence  game?  There's  enough  in  my  past 
that  I  wish  wasn't  there,  God  knows;  but  I'm  not 
going  to  hide  it.     The  people  have  a  right  to  know 

144 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

who  I  am  and  what  I've  done.  If  anybody  wants 
to  know  the  facts,  let  him  come  to  me  and  I'll 
give  them  to  him,  without  any  '  ifs '  or  '  ands '  or 
'buts.'  Buy  your  silence!  If  I  could  buy  fel- 
lows like  you  to  silence  at  five  cents  a  dozen,  I'd 
keep  my  nickel.     Hear?" 

There  was  the  murmur  of  a  low-voiced  response, 
which  Watson  cut  short. 

"Bronson!  Oh,  Bronson!  He's  back  of  it,  is 
he?  I  thought  so.  I  knew  he'd  show  himself 
sooner  or  later.  I  knew  he  couldn't  keep  up  even 
an  outward  show  of  decency  for  more  than  two 
weeks  at  a  time.  That  nasty  little  half-breed 
comes  of  two  races  of  traitors;  what  could  any 
one  expect  of  him  but  treachery?  If  to  keep 
faith  would  serve  his  ends  better,  he'd  still  choose 
the  part  of  the  betrayer;  he  couldn't  help  it. 
There  hasn't  been  any  political  scoundrelism 
worth  mentioning  in  Omaha  for  the  last  twenty 
years  but  that  he's  been  at  the  bottom  of  it.  You 
go  and  tell  him  I  said  so.  Bronson!  If  I  could 
buy  him  and  all  his  imps  to  silence  at  five  cents  a 
million,  it  would  be  an  extravagance.  I  wouldn't 
have  his  silence  at  any  price.  I  despise  him. 
Tell  him  I  said  that,  too.  I'll  make  no  compro- 
mise with  him,  if  it  would  give  me  the  place 
for  life.  Now  you  get  out  of  here,  and  stay 
out." 

He  flung  open  the  middle  door.     "  Boughton," 
he  flashed,  "  go  out  there  and  sit  in  my  chair  for  a 
while,  and  let  me  have  yours.     Don't  let  anybody 
10  145 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

bother  me  about  anything  till  I  get  ready  to  come 
out.     I  want  to  be  let  alone." 

For  a  time  David  heard  his  laboring  tread  cross- 
ing and  recrossing  the  narrow  limits  of  the  inner 
room,  in  a  brave  effort  to  walk  down  his  temper. 
Then  followed  two  hours  of  unbroken  silence  be- 
yond the  closed  door.  Noon  came — one  o'clock; 
still  there  was  no  sign  from  within.  The  office 
gathered  its  accustomed  multitude — a  multitude 
in  numbers,  but  a  wearisome  unit  in  type  and 
motive.  David  held  these  folk  at  bay  as  best  he 
could,  with  the  plea  that  Watson  was  engaged. 
Most  of  them  hung  about,  on  that  word,  waiting, 
and  more  came  in  to  help  them  wait,  until  the 
rooms  were  close  with  stale  smells,  thick  with 
smoke  of  cheap  tobacco,  buzzing  with  subdued 
talk  in  corners  between  confederates  in  some  cun- 
ning plot.  It  was  plain  enough  that  one  instinct 
ruled  the  common  mind — distrust.  The  breast 
of  practical  politics  yields  none  but  that  unwhole- 
some milk  to  its  sucklings.  In  other  conditions  of 
life  some  of  these  faces  would  have  been  good 
enough,  with  their  firm  features  and  a  certain 
latent  capacity  for  expressing  frank,  human  emo- 
tions ;  but  sly  craft  and  hungry  watchfulness  had 
pencilled  out  the  softer  lines,  making  the  faces 
into  stolid  masks,  expressive  of  nothing  above  the 
mental  level  of  the  fox. 

David  tried  at  first  to  go  on  with  his  reading, 
but  that  became  impossible,  and  he  gave  it  up  and 
laid  his  book  aside  as  one  of  the  loiterers — an  ill— 

146 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

clad  young  Irishman,  whose  old  coat  was  buttoned 
high  to  conceal  his  soiled  shirt-front  —  perched 
upon  a  corner  of  the  desk,  drumming  with  his 
heavy,  muddy  heels  on  the  polished  mahogany. 
The  fellow  had  an  instinct  for  friendliness,  or  for 
an  ostentatious  counterfeit  of  it,  and  seemed  to 
think  David  worth  cultivating. 

"  He's  a  great  man,  Watson  is,  ain't  he?  Have 
you  knowed  him  long?" 

"  Only  a  few  weeks." 

"I  been  knowin'  him  ten  year  —  an'  I  don't 
know  him  yet.  Watson's  deep,  he  is.  You  never 
know  how  to  take  him.  A  man  that  don't  drink — 
how's  anybody  to  know  what  he  will  do?"  He 
fetched  a  soiled  tobacco  -  pouch  from  his  pocket 
and  began  fashioning  a  cigarette  between  his 
pudgy  fingers.  When  it  was  finished  he  scratched 
a  match  on  the  desk-top  and  sucked  his  lungs  full 
of  the  pungent  smoke,  allowing  it  to  escape  slowly 
from  lips  and  nostrils  while  he  talked.  "  D'  ye 
ever  hear  about  the  time  he  quit  drinkin'  ?  'Twas 
the  funniest  thing  I  ever  seen  in  my  days." 

"  I  didn't  know  he'd  ever  been  a  drinker,"  David 
said. 

"Oh,  Lord!  Used  to  drink  like  a  sand-bank, 
five  or  six  year  ago.  Just  after  his  wife  run  off 
with  Curran,  there  was  a  whole  year  when  he  set 
the  high  mark  for  all  the  drinkers  in  Omaha. 
French  brandy — I've  seen  him  drink  a  pint  of  it 
without  turnin'  away  from  the  bar.  The  funniest 
thing  was  you  never  could  see  he  was  drunk,  not  a 

147 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

little  bit.  You  know  there  is  them  that  don't 
show  it,  even  when  they're  full  up  to  the  neck.  / 
ain't  that  kind.  Sure  as  I  get  three  or  four  little 
whiskeys  in  me  somebody's  got  to  ring  for  the 
patrol,  an'  then  I  got  to  cough  up  to  the  police 
clerk  next  mornin'.  That  makes  drinkin'  too 
damned  expensive  for  a  poor  man.  I  can't  afford 
it  to  get  full  more  'n  oncet  a  month.  An'  there 
was  Watson,  that  could  afford  to  pay  the  fines,  he 
could  take  his  pint  o'  brandy  on  board  an'  you'd 
never  know  it,  except  for  his  eyes.  He'd  walk 
home  steady  an'  straight  as  a  funeral.  I  tell  you, 
it  don't  look  like  things  was  evened  up  very  well 
in  this  world,  does  it?  An'  then,  just  to  think,  he 
was  the  one  that  quit!  He  didn't  know  a  good 
thing  when  he  had  it.  It  was  sure  funny,  though. 
There  was  a  bunch  of  us  down  in  Dougherty's 
place  one  night,  'long  about  'leven,  an'  he  came  in 
an'  stood  up  against  the  bar  an'  called  for  his 
brandy.  He  drunk  five  or  six  of  'em,  right  in  a 
string ;  an'  then  he  took  the  bottle  an'  went  over 
an'  set  down  to  a  table,  right  in  front  o'  the  big 
plate  lookin' -glass  they  had  there,  an'  poured  him 
out  another  one  an'  drunk  it,  lookin'  at  himself  in 
the  glass.  After  he'd  got  it  down,  he  set  there  a 
minute,  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  lookin'  at 
himself ;  an'  then  he  took  up  the  bottle,  holdin'  it 
up  to  his  nose,  smellin'  it  an'  shakin'  it,  an'  keepin' 
on  lookin'  at  himself  in  the  glass,  solemn  as  a 
horse.  You'd  've  died,  it  was  so  comical !  After  a 
bit  he  just  reached  over  an'  ketched  up  a  big  brass 

148 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

spittoon  that  was  settin'  on  the  floor,  an'  he  hauled 
off  an'  threw  it  right  plumb  through  the  lookin'- 
glass,  an'  smashed  it  all  to  hell.  He  just  turned 
'round  an'  walked  over  to  the  bar,  an'  he  says  to 
the  bar-keep',  'You  tell  Dougherty  to  send  the 
bill  for  damages  to  me  in  the  mornin'.'  He 
walked  out,  an'  he  ain't  touched  a  drop  o'  nothin' 
since.  Just  quit!  Don't  that  kill  you?  Oh,  I 
tell  you,  he's  a  deep  one!" 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  less  hardy 
ones  of  the  crowd  abandoned  their  watch  and 
went  listlessly  away;  but  it  was  near  the  dinner 
hour  when  the  room  was  finally  cleared.  Still 
there  was  only  silence  beyond  Watson's  door. 
David  had  missed  his  lunch— a  thing  he  was  not 
used  to  doing — and  his  stomach  yearned.  After 
the  last  man  had  taken  his  way  down  the  echoing 
corridor,  David  went  in  for  his  coat  and  hat. 

Watson  sat  by  the  window,  lolling  back  in 
his  chair,  his  huge  legs  cocked  upon  the  desk- 
top, a  much-read  copy  of  Middlemarch  lying  open 
in  his  lap.  He  looked  up,  quaking  with  quiet 
laughter. 

"Oh,  I'm  having  a  bully  time!"  he  cried,  his 
voice  ringing  like  a  boy's.  "  I  haven't  enjoyed 
myself  so  much  in  years.  By  ginger,  I  do  like 
George  Eliot!  She's  so  astonishingly  prodigal 
with  her  good  things.  Why,  the  very  best  things 
in  this  story  are  tucked  away  in  the  obscurest 
corners  of  out-of-the-way  paragraphs,  where  you'd 
never  think  of  looking  for  them.    I  don't  see  how 

149 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

she  could  afford  to  be  so  reckless.  If  I  were  a 
writer,  I'd  do  differently.  I'd  save  up  all  the 
witty  things  to  begin  chapters  with,  where  they'd 
make  a  show.  But  she  doesn't  seem  to  care 
whether  anybody  sees  them  or  not.  She's  a 
regular  spendthrift." 

He  slammed  the  book  shut  and  threw  it  on 
the  desk,  then  stretched  his  arms  over  his  head, 
yawning. 

"Another  day  gone,  thank  the  Lord!  What- 
ever's  in  store  for  us  is  so  much  nearer.  Come 
on,  let's  get  a  little  dinner  somewhere,  just  by 
ourselves,  and  then  go  to  the  theatre.  What  do 
you  say?  There's  a  delicious  bit  of  comedy  on, 
this  week,  over  at  Boyd's." 


XV 


EVENING  was  settling  as  they  went  out.  It 
was  not  yet  dusk,  but  there  was  a  softening 
of  the  robust  afternoon  light,  an  assembling  of 
shadows  in  the  corners  of  the  halls.  The  incan- 
descent globes  were  glowing  feebly.  Many  of  the 
tenants  of  the  building  were  locking  their  doors 
and  starting  homeward;  the  janitors  were  assert- 
ing themselves,  hurrying  with  their  nightly  work. 
The  elevators  were  crowded,  and  the  crowd  thick- 
ened in  the  rotunda  to  a  dense  throng. 

There  was  excitement  of  some  sort  afoot.  The 
broad  stone  steps  leading  down  to  the  street 
were  packed  with  men  squeezed  together,  those 
on  the  outside  stretching  on  tiptoe,  craning  their 
necks  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  go- 
ing on  in  the  entry,  where  voices  were  rising  in 
a  swirl  of  passionate  altercation. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  Watson  demanded, 
elbowing  the  lesser  folk  aside  and  pushing  his  way 
towards  the  centre  of  difficulty.  Recognizing 
him,  the  crowd  opened  a  way  for  him.  A  voice 
sang  out  above  the  clamor,  "Here's  Watson 
now!"  and  the  cry  was  taken  up  by  other  voices. 
Then  the  crowd  closed  together  in  a  breathless  jam. 

151 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  Yes,  here  I  am !"  Watson  challenged.  "  What's 
up?  If  it's  anything  of  mine,  give  me  a  hand 
in  it." 

The  man  Bronson  stood  at  the  side  of  one  of 
the  steps,  his  back  planted  against  a  pillar,  his 
arms  swinging  above  his  head,  his  voice  lifted 
in  a  fury  of  declamation.  His  face  was  livid  with 
anger,  the  muscles  distorted,  gnarled;  his  hat 
was  gone;  his  hair  was  tangled  and  blown  about 
his  forehead.  Before  him,  facing  him,  the  object 
of  his  violent  wrath,  stood  a  decrepit  old  man, 
leaning  heavily  upon  a  stout  cane.  His  figure 
was  patriarchal,  venerable;  it  suggested  that  al- 
most angelic  dignity  which  descends  upon  very 
old  men  towards  the  last.  But  his  face  was  in 
odd  contrast  to  that  suggestion;  his  wrrinkled 
cheeks  were  flushing  with  sardonic  satisfaction  in 
having  provoked  Bronson's  theatrical  outburst; 
his  rheumy  old  eyes  were  flashing.  He  was  en- 
joying himself  thoroughly,  tasting  again  the  al- 
most forgotten  savor  of  conflict. 

"  What's  all  this  about  ?"  Watson  repeated.  He 
laid  his  hand,  not  unkindly,  upon  the  old  man's 
shoulder.  "What  are  you  doing,  Martin?  This 
is  no  business  for  you." 

The  ancient  straightened  his  bent  form  slight- 
ly, laughing  in  a  weak,  plaintive  falsetto.  "You 
let  me  alone.  I'm  just-amusin'  the  boys  a  little, 
pokin'  up  the  pup  to  hear  him  yelp.  If  you  want 
some  fun,  you  stand  there  an'  listen  a  minute. 
He's  just  peelin'  the  wrapper  off  a  fresh  bundle  o' 

152 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

dif  rent  colored  cuss-words.  He's  talkin'  about 
you,  too.  It  ought  to  be  mighty  interestin'  for 
you." 

"Oh,  come  away!"  Watson  growled.  "A  man 
of  your  sense  has  no  business  messing  with  such 
offal;  the  smell  will  stick  to  you  for  days." 

Bronson  sprang  suddenly  forward,  shaking  his 
closed  fist  in  Watson's  face,  lifting  his  voice  in  an 
inarticulate  scream.     He  was  quite  beside  himself. 

"  Wow-wow!"  the  old  man  cried,  in  shrill  taunt. 
"Just  listen!  Anybody  'd  think  to  hear  him  that 
the  little  mongrel  was  'most  ready  to  bite."  He 
turned,  grinning,  towards  the  nearer  members  of 
the  crowd,  who  had  drawn  back  a  little  in  alarm. 
"  Don't  get  scairt,  boys ;  I  won't  let  him  hurt  you." 
He  faced  Watson,  licking  his  tongue  over  his 
shrivelled  lips.  "Somebody's  been  tellin'  him 
somethin'  you  said  about  him  to-day,  an'  seems 
like  it's  kind  o'  disagreed  with  him.  I  just  been 
tellin'  him  what  I  think  about  him,  too,  an'  he 
don't  seem  to  like  that  no  better.  He's  awful 
hard  to  please,  ain't  he?  I  said  as  many  dif 'rent 
things  as  I  could  think  of,  too,  so's  to  give  him 
a  chance  to  take  his  pick." 

"Oh,  somebody  take  this  doddering  old  grand- 
mother away!"  Bronson  cried.  "This  is  business 
for  men." 

"  Men !"  the  old  fellow  echoed,  in  his  thin  treble. 
"Who's  called  you  a  man?  You'd  have  a  thun- 
derin'  hard  time  provin'  it.  All  you've  got  to 
show  for  your  manhood  is  the  poor  girls  you've 

153 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ruined,  an'  the  bastard  children  you've  got  hid 
away  in  asylums.  Don't  you  talk  to  me  about 
men  /" 

In  a  frenzy  Bronson  raised  his  arm  and  struck 
the  old  man  heavily  in  the  face.  He  swung  half 
around  under  the  blow,  trying  to  steady  himself 
upon  his  cane,  clutching  at  the  air.  His  foot 
slipped  on  the  stone,  and  before  any  could  prevent 
he  fell  backward  at  full  length,  his  head  striking 
with  violence  against  the  edge  of  a  step. 

For  a  moment  no  one  moved.  The  fallen  man 
lay  without  stirring,  save  for  a  convulsive  dra wing- 
up  of  the  legs.  His  face  was  upturned,  colorless. 
A  small  pool  of  blood  formed  beneath  his  head, 
staining  his  silvery  hair  and  trickling  slowly  over 
the  edge  of  the  step  to  the  one  below. 

Watson  was  the  first  to  recover.  His  big  hand 
caught  Bronson's  collar,  forcing  him  back  against 
the  wall. 

"You  infamous  coward!"  he  roared.  Bron- 
son's hand  went  to  his  hip,  but  Watson's  mighty 
grasp  tightened  like  steel  on  his  wrist,  and  the 
bone  snapped. 

"Call  an  officer!"  Watson  shouted.  "Get  a 
doctor  here,  somebody.  Lift  Martin  up,  can't 
you?     What  are  you  gaping  at,  you  dolts?" 

David  knelt  on  the  steps,  raising  the  old  head 
to  his  knee. 

"  Let  me  through!"  a  voice  demanded,  sharply, 
and  a  man  knelt  beside  the  body,  examining  it 
with  deft,  professional  manner. 

154 


HIS    BIG    HAND    CAUGHT    BROXSOX  S    COLLAR 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Dead,"  he  said,  simply.  "You'd  better  get 
an  ambulance.  The  police  surgeon  ought  to  see 
him,  too,  to  prevent  question.  He's  dead,  though 
— killed  instantly." 

Terror  seized  upon  Bronson,  making  him  oblivi- 
ous to  the  pain  in  his  broken  wrist.  "  Good  God, 
no!"  he  chattered.  "  He  can't  be  dead!  Get  an- 
other doctor,  quick,  for  God's  sake!  Let  go  of 
me,  Watson.  Let  me  see  him.  Of  course  he's 
not  dead.     Men  don't  die  as  easy  as  that." 

"This  one  did,"  the  physician  said,  curtly. 
"  He's  dead  enough.  There  was  concussion  at  the 
base  of  the  brain,  with  instant  paralysis." 

A  police  officer  and  a  deputy  from  the  sheriff's 
office  ran  in  together  from  the  street  and  relieved 
Watson  of  his  shivering  charge,  hurrying  him 
away,  some  of  the  spectators  trailing  along  behind, 
aimlessly  expectant.  The  police  patrol  came  up 
at  a  gallop,  and  the  alert  young  surgeon  gave  the 
body  a  swift  inspection.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
concert  of  intention  to  have  the  incident  over  with 
as  soon  as  possible. 

"  He's  dead,  all  right,"  the  surgeon  said.  "The 
coroner's  the  man  you  want  now.  You'd  better 
take  him  down  in  our  ambulance,  and  not  wait  for 
them  to  come  after  him." 

The  body  was  lifted  into  the  black  wagon,  and 
Watson  climbed  in  beside  it. 

"  Come  on,  Bough  ton,"  he  urged.  "  I  must  look 
after  him,  and  I'll  need  your  help."  On  the  way 
down  street  he  bent  over  the  dead  figure,  straight- 

155 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ening  the  poor  old  legs  and  arms  with  an  ineffect- 
ual tenderness. 

"  Oh,  it's  tough,"  he  lamented,  gloomily.  "  Poor 
old  soul!  A  better  fellow  never  lived  on  earth. 
And  to  die  in  that  way,  under  the  hand  of  that  un- 
speakable scoundrel !  He  thought  he  was  serving 
me,  too."  He  looked  across  at  David  with  eyes 
full  of  dismay.  "  I  feel  as  though  it's  on  my  head. 
I  knew  when  I  went  into  it  that  there  was  some 
hideous  thing  lying  in  wait  for  me  behind  it  all." 

They  left  the  body  with  the  coroner,  Watson 
giving  directions  for  its  care.  Then  they  came 
out  to  the  street  again,  and  Watson  laid  his  hand 
heavily  upon  David's  arm. 

"We'll  have  to  go  and  see  his  wife,"  he  said, 
in  growing  anguish  of  mind.  "There  were  just 
those  two,  grown  old  together.  By  God,  it's  cruel ! 
It  '11  kill  her,  too,  most  likely.  They  depended  on 
each  other  like  children.  I'd  give  all  I've  got  if 
I  didn't  have  to  go ;  but  she'd  better  hear  it  from 
some  one  of  sense.  I  hope  no  bungler  has  got 
there  ahead  of  us.  You'll  have  to  stand  by  me, 
Boughton,  and  see  me  through.  I  can't  do  it 
alone." 

It  was  quite  dark.  They  went  to  a  remote  cor- 
ner of  the  city  —  a  quiet  cross  street  where  small 
cottages  stood  in  close  rows.  Evidently  the  neigh- 
borhood was  known  to  Watson ;  he  went  directly 
to  one  of  the  houses,  passed  around  by  the  nar- 
row, creaking  plank-walk  to  the  kitchen,  and  rap- 
ped at  the  door.     A  little  dog  within  started  a 

156 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

furious  yap-yapping  in  the  thin,  rasping  voice  of 
canine  senility.  A  woman  spoke  in  reproof,  then 
came  slowly  forward  and  opened  the  door. 

She  was  a  shadowy,  little,  old  creature,  with  just 
enough  of  substance  left  upon  her  bones  to  hold 
a  flickering  spark  of  vitality.  Her  dress,  though 
scanty  to  the  lowest  point  of  plainness,  hung  loose- 
ly from  her  lean  shoulders ;  her  eyes,  behind  big, 
steel-framed  spectacles,  shone  but  feebly. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"You'd  never  guess,"  Watson  answered,  with  a 
deep-toned  laugh — a  brave  assumption  of  cheer. 
The  woman  started  in  pleased  surprise. 

"Why,  Paul!"  she  cried,  holding  her  weazened, 
tremulous  hands  towards  him.  "Why,  what  in 
the  world  brings  you  here?"  She  took  his  big 
hand  between  her  own,  drawing  him  inside,  cling- 
ing to  him  still,  patting  his  arm,  leaning  upon  him 
with  what  seemed  an  excess  of  feeling.  "It's  aw- 
ful good  of  you  to  come;  but  you  oughtn't  to 
put  yourself  out  to  do  it,  when  I  know  how  terrible 
busy  you've  been.  Oncet  a  month  is  as  often  as 
we  ought  to  expect  you  to  come  away  out  here, 
just  to  see  a  couple  o'  old  folks  like  we  be."  She 
caught  sight  of  David  then,  and  regarded  him 
with  a  pathetic,  half -blind  stare.  "Oh,  you've 
brought  some  one  with  you." 

"Yes.  This  is  Mr.  Boughton,  Mrs.  Akin.  He's 
a  friend  of  mine  —  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  boy. 
You'll  have  to  make  a  place  in  your  heart  for  him, 
too,  as  you've  done  with  me." 

157 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

She  gave  David  a  nervous,  embarrassed  hand- 
clasp. "I  guess  I  can,  if  you  say  so,  Paul,"  she 
said,  with  a  quavering  laugh.  "Anybody  you 
like  's  got  a  place  in  my  heart  a'ready,  though, 
without  no  askin'.  Set  down,  won't  you,  by  the 
stove,  an'  get  you  warmed  up.  These  nights  is 
gettin'  pretty  chilly  after  dark;  though  I  'ain't 
hardly  ever  seen  such  a  fine  fall  as  this  has  been, 
not  since  we  first  come  acrost  the  Missouri.  That's 
forty-three  year  ago  yeste'd'y.  Yes,  sir.  Me  an' 
Martin  was  settin'  at  the  supper-table  last  night, 
an'  it  came  to  me  all  of  a  sudden  what  day  it  was. 
I  couldn't  hardly  believe  it,  how  long  it  had  been, 
when  I  come  to  think  back  over  it.  Martin  said 
it  seemed  twicet  as  long  to  him,  but  it  don't  to 
me.  I  believe  the  older  I  get  the  shorter  it  seems. 
I  went  an'  opened  up  a  can  o'  them  peaches  you 
sent  me,  to  kind  o'  celebrate;  an'  after  supper 
Mart  he  set  here  an'  smoked  one  o'  your  cigars,  an' 
we  didn't  go  to  bed  till  after  ten  o'clock,  talkin' 
about  old  times.  He  hadn't  ought  to  smoked  it, 
though,  that  near  bedtime,  because  he  didn't 
sleep  none  to  speak  of  till  pretty  near  mornin' ;  an' 
he  kep'  me  awake,  too,  with  his  thrashin'  'round. 
But  I  guess  mebbe  't  wa'n't  all  the  cigar  that  done 
it.  It's  got  so,  lately,  he  gets  all  stirred  up  every 
time  he  starts  to  talkin'  about  the  days  he  was 
young.  I  tell  him  I  b'lieve  he's  gettin'  foolish 
over  it." 

She  had  placed  a  couple  of  chairs  for  them,  and, 
while  she  went  on  with  her  cheery,  inconsequent 

158 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

recital,  had  turned  her  attention  to  the  little  cook- 
stove,  whose  top  held  a  bubbling  teakettle  and 
stewpan.  Her  age  sat  lightly  upon  her  spirit, 
though  it  had  worked  havoc  with  her  body.  She 
was  happily  contented. 


XVI 

THE  kitchen  of  the  Akin  home  was  narrow 
and  low,  and  altogether  tiny,  though  there 
was  plenty  of  space  for  the  few  simple  furnishings. 
A  cheap  pine  cupboard  stood  in  one  corner ;  a  pine 
table,  covered  with  a  square  of  red  oil-cloth,  was 
over  against  the  wall,  set  ready  for  supper,  a 
small,  flat-wicked  oil-lamp  gleaming  faintly  upon 
the  slight  array  of  coarse  crockery.  The  floor  was 
bare  save  that  back  of  the  stove  a  braided  rug 
was  spread  for  the  comfort  of  the  dog — an  ugly 
pug,  bloated  with  years.  That  was  all,  excepting 
those  bravely  conventional  attempts  at  decoration 
which  poverty  is  wont  to  indulge  when  it  sets 
about  making  a  home  for  itself — a  canary  chirp- 
ing sleepily  in  its  diminutive  prison,  two  or  three 
stunted  geraniums  in  tin  cans  on  the  window- 
shelf,  and  a  various  collection  of  colored  pictures, 
cut  from  the  literature  of  the  grocer  and  the 
butcher,  fastened  up  with  pins  here  and  there 
about  the  cracked  plastering. 

"I'll  just  make  an  extry  cup  o'  tea,"  the  woman 
said,  briskly.  "You'll  stay  an'  help  me  an'  Mart 
drink  it,  won't  you?  Mart  hasn't  come  home 
yet  to-night,  but  he  ought  to  be  here  by  the  time 

160 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I  get  things  ready.  I  can't  think  what's  keepin' 
him.  If  there's  one  thing  he's  usu'ly  particular 
about,  it's  gettin'  home  in  time  for  supper.  You 
just  take  your  coats  off  an'  let  me  lay  'em  in  on 
the  bed,  an'  then  wait  a  bit.  I  s'pose  mebbe  you 
wanted  to  see  Mart,  anyway,  didn't  you?" 

Watson  got  to  his  feet  with  a  mighty  sigh, 
walking  around  the  little  stove  and  standing  by 
her  side,  laying  his  arm  over  her  drooping  shoul- 
ders. "No,  Mrs.  Akin,  we  didn't  come  to  see 
Mart.  We  came  to  see  you  alone,  this  time." 
He  faltered,  looking  down  at  her  with  infinite 
compassion.  "You've  always  had  the  courage 
of  a  dozen  men  in  facing  things.  You  must  keep 
it  now.  We  don't  bring  you  very  good  news, 
dear  old  heart." 

"  Oh !"  she  breathed.  She  drew  back  from  him 
a  little,  putting  up  her  shaking  hands  to  set  her 
spectacles  straight  upon  her  nose,  then  looking 
earnestly  into  his  face.  "It's  something  about 
Mart,  ain't  it?  Something's  happened  to  him. 
Tell  me.     Is  he  sick,  or  hurt?" 

"He  was  hurt,"  Watson  answered,  with  heavy 
reluctance.  "Yes,  he  was  very  badly  hurt.  But 
it's  all  over  now,  and  all  right.  I  know  you'll  say 
so.  I  know  what  your  faith  is."  He  stretched 
out  his  arms  and  took  her  in  their  clasp,  holding 
her  gray  old  head  against  his  burly  breast.  Tears 
sprang  to  David's  sympathetic  eyes,  but  Watson's 
feeling  was  deeper;  his  eyes  were  dry,  his  voice 
without  a  tremor.  "  He  didn't  know  a  moment's 
ii  161 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

suffering.  If  your  love  could  have  chosen  the 
way,  you  couldn't  have  given  him  less  pain  than 
he  felt.     It  was  all  over  in  a  moment." 

It  sounded  almost  brutally  blunt  and  hard. 
At  the  best,  no  matter  what  their  tact  or  grace 
or  tenderness  of  tongue  or  intention,  messengers 
who  bear  such  tidings  have  no  easy  task.  News 
of  death  is  not  to  be  much  softened  by  the  lit- 
tle subtleties  of  the  intellect.  The  plain,  simple 
word  is  as  good  as  any  delicate  contrivance. 

She  lay  quite  still  for  a  moment  in  his  arms, 
her  face  hidden ;  then  she  released  herself  gently. 
They  might  have  spared  themselves  the  dread 
of  racking  demonstration;  there  was  no  outcry, 
no  spectacular  grief.  She  lifted  her  hands  and 
smoothed  some  straggling  ends  of  hair  back  from 
her  forehead.  Upon  a  careful,  subconscious  im- 
pulse of  housewifery,  she  moved  the  steaming 
stewpan  to  the  back  of  the  stove  and  closed  a 
damper,  then  stood  with  hands  held  together 
before  her,  puckering  the  hem  of  her  apron  be- 
tween her  knotted  fingers,  regarding  the  plaits 
intently.  She  did  not  appear  stunned.  Her 
busy,  homely  cares  of  a  few  minutes  ago  had 
come  suddenly  to  a  dead  stop ;  that  was  all.  She 
was  looking  at  the  fact  with  clear  vision.  A  long, 
long  sigh  was  her  only  show  of  emotion. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked,  presently,  in  un- 
daunted quiet.     "Were  you  with  him,  Paul?" 

"Yes.  We  were  both  there,  and  we've  done 
everything  needful.     There  isn't  anything  any- 

162 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

body  can  do  now,  except  to  care  for  you.  You 
must  let  me  do  that,  while  we  both  live.  I  can't 
take  his  place,  of  course,  but  you  must  let  me  do 
what  I  can.  You  mustn't  be  anxious.  I'll  take 
care  of  you.  I'll — "  He  turned  away  before 
the  look  she  gave  him  and  crossed  to  the  win- 
dow, staring  out  into  the  night,  his  big  body  shak- 
ing. "God!"  he  cried.  "I  can't  see  why  things 
happen  so!" 

"Paul!  Paul!"  she  said.  "You  mustn't  talk 
that  way."  She  was  at  his  side,  clutching  his 
arm,  holding  fast  to  him.  "Listen  to  me  a 
minute.  I'm  not  grievin'.  God  knows  best, 
Paul.  I've  been  wonderin'  an'  wonderin',  ever 
since  he  had  his  last  spell,  if  it  wasn't  'most  time 
for  him  to  go.  His  work  was  all  done  in  this 
world  years  ago,  an'  he  was  just  kind  o'  waitin' 
to  hear  the  word,  same  as  I  be.  He  was  all 
ready,  any  time.  When  a  body's  old,  like  us,  an' 
can't  do  no  more,  why,  death's  God's  mercy  to 
'em.  It's  meant  that  way;  don't  you  see?  I 
don't  say  I  won't  miss  him ;  I  been  so  used  to  his 
ways,  an'  gettin'  his  meals  for  him,  an'  helpin' 
him  on  with  his  shoes  in  the  mornin' —  Oh,  I  will 
miss  him  dreadful;  I  will,  I  will!"  She  bent  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  in  a  spasm  of  acute 
suffering ;  but  in  a  moment  her  patient  eyes  were 
raised  again  to  his.  "Can't  you  see  it's  best? 
We  wouldn't  never  've  wished  him  dead,  not  if 
he'd  lived  a  hundred  years  yet;  but  now  it's 
happened,  I'm  not  goin'  to  think  o'  nothin'  except 

163 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

what  a  blessin'  it  is  to  him  to  be  red  of  his  neuralgy 
an'  his  crippled  leg  an'  all  like  that.  I  ain't  sorry 
for  him;  it's  only  myself  I'm  sorry  for,  an'  I  'ain't 
got  no  business  to  be  that.  It  ain't  a  shock,  like 
it  would  've  been  when  we  was  young.  I  been 
expectin'  it.  There  'ain't  been  a  night  this  last 
year  but  I've  gone  to  sleep  wonderin'  if  we'd  both 
wake  up  in  the  mornin',  an'  kind  o'  surprised 
when  we  did.  It's  all  right,  Paul.  It's  a  blessin' 
he  was  the  one  to  go  first,  because  he  couldn't 
have  got  along  nohow  alone,  like  I  can.  It  won't 
be  very  long.  I'll  go,  too,  one  o'  these  days 
pretty  soon,  an'  then  we'll  both  be  together  again." 

"God  bless  you!"  Watson  cried.  "I  sha'n't 
make  a  fool  of  myself  trying  to  comfort  a  faith 
like  yours.  You  don't  need  comfort.  But  you've 
got  to  let  me  look  after  you — like  a  son.  I'll  be 
a  son  to  you." 

"You've  been  better  to  us  than  our  own  son 
ever  was,"  she  answered,  simply.  "I'm  not 
goin'  to  be  proud  with  you,  an'  say  no.  I  won't 
need  much;  but  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  give  it  to 
me,  just  like  you  been  doin',  as  long  as  you  feel 
like  it." 

The  news  had  reached  the  neighborhood  at  last, 
and  some  women  came  in  from  the  cottages  near 
by,  full  of  beautiful  human  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy. Some,  true  to  the  one  sure  impulse  of  the 
lowly  in  such  hours — the  impulse  to  give — brought 
modest  offerings  of  delicacies  from  their  own  stores 
at  home.     The  kitchen  filled  with  those  good, 

164 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

hearty,  homely  souls;  they  overwhelmed  the  old 
widow  with  the  numberless,  nameless  little  offices 
which  only  the  women  of  that  rank  know;  they 
wept  over  her;  they  stood  around,  talking  to- 
gether in  garrulous  over-cheerfulness,  as  if  that 
would  exorcise  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Akin  seemed  in  small  need  of  ministration. 
She  sat  in  her  rocking-chair  beside  the  stove,  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap,  hearing  and  seeing  what 
was  going  on,  but  heeding  only  her  own  deep, 
tranquil  thoughts.  Her  wrinkled  old  face  was 
transfigured,  glorified  by  its  perfect  peace. 

Watson  spoke  quietly  to  David.  "  We'd  better 
go.  We  don't  belong  here  now.  She'll  be  taken 
care  of  better  than  we  could  do  it.  Let's  get  out. 
I'll  come  up  again  in  the  morning." 

They  slipped  away  and  returned  towards  the 
heart  of  the  city. 


XVII 

ALTHOUGH  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  the  down- 
l  town  streets  were  full  of  men.  Watson  and 
David  left  the  electric-car  at  Sixteenth  and  Far- 
nam.  There  was  a  crowd  at  the  corner,  moving 
westward,  and  people  were  hurrying  in  from  all 
the  side  streets.  They  were  orderly  enough.  There 
was  no  boisterous  confusion ;  only  the  steady,  shuf- 
fling drift  of  feet  up  the  hill.  There  was  no  ex- 
cited outcry;  only  a  strong,  bass  hum  of  many 
voices. 

Watson  stopped  at  the  curb,  looking  quickly 
around.  "  Heavens  and  earth !"  he  said,  in  a  deep 
undertone.     "  Here's  a  mess!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  David  asked. 

"Look!"  Watson  returned.  He  pointed  west- 
ward. A  block  away,  at  the  intersection  of  Sev- 
enteenth Street,  the  flowing  crowd  had  met  an 
obstruction.  The  arc-lamps,  swinging  overhead, 
revealed  many  thousands  of  men  closely  jammed, 
congested  in  the  wide  street,  packing  the  space 
between  the  court-house  wall  and  the  opposite 
buildings.  At  that  distance  the  eye  could  see 
nothing  individual ;  there  was  only  a  broad,  swell- 
ing surge  of  the  mass,  now  backward,  now  forward, 

166 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

under  constantly  changing  impulse  or  direction. 
The  ear  could  catch  only  one  dominant  note — the 
heavy  roar  of  one  voice,  sullen,  ominous — the  roar 
of  a  tumbling  surf  of  passion.  The  court-house 
yard,  with  its  steep,  sodded  terraces,  was  cleared; 
but  at  intervals  on  the  long  flights  of  steps  groups 
of  police  officers  were  stationed,  the  metal  stars  on 
their  breasts  glinting. 

"What  is  it?"  David  persisted.  His  inexperi- 
ence left  him  far  short  of  realizing  what  was  afoot ; 
but  he  felt  an  indescribable  thrill,  that  was  half 
terror  and  half  exultation. 

"Don't  you  know?"  Watson  cried.  "They're 
after  him!" 

"You  mean — " 

"  I  mean  Bronson,  God  damn  him!" 

The  common  impulse  had  taken  hold  upon 
them ;  unthinkingly  they  had  fallen  into  step  with 
the  rest,  and  were  pushing  their  way  excitedly 
towards  the  point  above,  where  the  heart  of  the 
movement  was  throbbing,  sending  abroad  hot, 
pulsing  waves  of  feeling.  The  sidewalks  were  too 
narrow;  the  throng  had  spread  out  to  the  pave- 
ment, choking  it  from  centre  to  curb.  The  car- 
line  was  blockaded ;  a  half-dozen  cars  stood  in  line 
below  Seventeenth  Street,  and  in  the  lower  block 
was  another  string. 

Watson  seemed  possessed;  his  great  body  was 
alive  to  its  outmost  fibre.  "Keep  close  to  me!" 
he  called  to  David,  and  with  savage  strength  he 
crowded  and  fought  his  way  onward,  crushing  op- 

T67 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

position.  Once  thoroughly  aroused,  he  was  not  to 
be  held  back.  In  the  thickest  of  the  mob,  where 
the  efforts  of  other  men  were  impotent,  he  threw 
his  ponderous  weight  against  the  mass,  breaking 
it  apart  and  going  through.  David  had  all  he 
could  do  to  keep  up.  Now  he  was  borne  almost 
to  his  knees,  then  lifted  fairly  from  his  feet;  but 
his  own  muscular  strength  was  great,  and  at  last 
he  stood,  breathless  and  shaking,  by  Watson's 
side,  leaning  against  the  stone  wall  below  the 
court-house. 

A  police  captain  with  a  squad  of  men  blocked 
the  foot  of  the  stairway  near  by.  Those  below 
were  swinging  their  clubs  threateningly  against 
the  front  rank  of  the  crowd,  as  it  was  unwillingly 
borne  forward  by  the  ungovernable  pressure  from 
the  rear;  those  above  stood  ready  for  emergency, 
armed  with  heavy  revolvers. 

When  he  had  recovered  his  breath,  Watson  went 
closer.  "Let  us  through,  Mike,"  he  called  to  the 
captain.  The  officer  recognized  him  and  spoke  a 
quiet  word  to  his  men ;  way  was  made  for  them  to 
pass,  the  squad  closing  again  after  them. 

Watson  spoke  to  one  of  the  rear  rank.  "Has 
anything  happened  yet?" 

"No,"  the  man  answered,  "nor  I  don't  believe 
it  will.  There's  nobody  at  the  head.  They  ain't 
goin'  to  do  nothin'  this  way.  They'll  get  tired  an' 
cold  pretty  soon,  an'  go  home.  There  'ain't  been 
a  sign  o'  trouble." 

"  What  has  the  sheriff  done?" 
168 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  Oh,  he's  back  in  the  jail  with  his  own  men,  an' 
he's  got  a  few  extra  deputies  pressed  in.  Every- 
thing's been  quiet  around  there.  We've  kept  the 
yard  clear.  We'll  get  the  crowd  to  movin'  after 
a  while.  The  chief's  sent  out  for  the  day -men  to 
come  down  an'  help.  After  we  once  get  'em  mov- 
in', it  '11  be  all  over  in  an  hour  or  two.  You  can 
see  by  lookin'  at  'em  they  ain't  out  for  blood." 

In  truth,  there  was  little  of  blood-thirsty  feroc- 
ity appearing  on  those  upturned  faces.  Stand- 
ing apart  and  looking  at  them  from  above,  they 
seemed  dull  rather  than  savage ;  they  were  merely 
gaping  with  curiosity.  The  only  token  they  gave 
of  great  portent  was  that  deep-throated  snarl — a 
note  that  rang  from  an  elemental  chord  in  the  soul 
of  the  multitude.  Personal  identity  was  engulfed 
in  the  breadth  of  sound.  No  single  voice  had  that 
ring;  yet  it  swelled,  resonant,  terrible,  above  the 
mingled  cries  of  the  many,  as  the  voice  of  the 
demon  that  moved  them.  None  can  understand 
who  has  not  heard.  As  David  listened  to  it,  it 
beat  upon  his  ears  with  a  sickening  significance. 
It  was  as  lawless,  as  far  beyond  methodical  con- 
trol, as  the  roll  of  thunder  on  some  wild  night  of 
prairie  storm.  The  terror  was  not  in  the  sound 
itself,  but  in  the  nameless  feeling  it  bred  in  the 
heart  of  him  who  heard.  Thousands  of  men  do 
not  meet  in  perfect  sympathy  on  a  common  plane, 
unless  it  be  a  plane  very  low  in  the  scale  of  emo- 
tion. These  thousands  were  as  one.  There  was 
the  threat,   the  danger.     What  if  they  should 

169 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

make  up  their  minds  to  kill?  The  spirit  of  law 
and  order,  represented  in  those  little  knots  of  blue- 
coats,  appeared  so  paltry,  so  wholly  ineffective, 
against  the  potential  strength  of  that  vast  horde. 

Watson  led  the  way  to  the  pillared  porch  above, 
where  a  dozen  men,  leaders  like  himself  in  the  pub- 
lic life  of  the  city,  were  assembled,  waiting,  talk- 
ing quietly  together.  They  met  him  as  though 
his  coming  was  welcome — as  though  they  got  com- 
fort and  support  from  his  sturdy,  masterful  pres- 
ence. They  were  men  strongly  set  apart  from  the 
mob  below ;  they  were  of  that  class,  always  small 
in  numbers  but  great  in  power,  which  gives  dig- 
nity and  poise  and  safety  to  the  life  of  a  commu- 
nity ;  men  in  whom  the  old,  old  idea  of  integrity 
rises  always  and  forever  superior  to  that  inextri- 
cable tangle  of  twisted  and  broken  threads  of  mo- 
tive that  actuates  the  people.  They  were  all  past 
middle  life,  past  the  danger  of  easy  disturbance  of 
mind  and  soul.  Outwardly  they  appeared  almost 
unmoved  by  the  dramatic  fervor  of  the  spectacle 
being  enacted  under  their  eyes ;  more  than  once  a 
low  laugh  went  around,  in  sympathy  with  a  whim- 
sical or  witty  word  from  one  or  another  of  their 
number ;  but  under  it  all  lay  a  deep,  far-reaching 
sense  of  human  obligation — obligation  alike  for 
the  turbulent  thousands  and  for  the  one  poor 
wretch  who  cowered  in  his  cell  at  the  back  of  the 
yard,  listening  to  the  merciless,  hungry  clamor 
that  was  making  the  air  vibrant. 

"  Well,  Watson,"  one  of  these  men  said,  in  greet- 
170 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ing,  "  you've  managed  to  put  quite  a  little  show  on 
the  boards  to-night.  I  believe  they  say  you're 
the  stage-manager." 

"  It's  most  deadly  true,  God  forgive  me!"  Wat- 
son answered,  with  an  earnestness  that  put  an 
instant  check  upon  the  other's  jest.  He  seated 
himself  wearily  upon  the  topmost  step,  his  elbows 
on  his  knees,  his  chin  supported  in  his  hands,  his 
gloomy  eyes  wandering  slowly  over  the  face  of  the 
billowing  human  sea. 

"I  wonder  why  the  Almighty  doesn't  give  us 
a  little  foresight,"  he  said.  "Just  a  little — just 
enough  to  let  us  avert  these  awful  and  useless 
catastrophes.  It  would  have  taken  so  little  fore- 
knowledge to  prevent  this  murder  to-night.  When 
a  thing's  past,  like  this,  we  get  a  sense  of  respon- 
sibility that's  fairly  benumbing;  but  what  good 
does  that  do?" 

Before  any  tried  to  answer  there  was  a  diversion 
in  the  street.  Something  had  happened,  unseen 
from  above,  exciting  the  crowd  to  laughter.  The 
laugh  went  flickering  over  the  surface  of  that 
ominous,  persistent  hum  like  the  shimmer  of 
moonlight  over  the  ruffled  bosom  of  dark  waters ; 
there  was  an  effect  in  it  like  a  cold  shiver.  One 
of  the  onlookers  spoke. 

"There's  no  getting  at  the  heart  of  a  mob  like 
that.  There's  absolutely  no  telling  what  it  will 
do  or  won't  do  under  a  mighty  little  provocation. 
They're  ready  to  laugh  or  kill,  just  according  to 
how   the   notion   strikes   them;   and   they   don't 

171 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

much  care  which  comes  first.  Individually,  they're 
sane  enough;  but  get  a  few  hundred  of  them  to- 
gether in  a  crowd  and  start  some  sort  of  a  wild 
cry,  and  they'll  go  clean  back  at  one  jump  to 
naked  savagery.  You'd  think  the  human  race 
would  have  outgrown  that  sort  of  folly  by  this 
time." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  Watson  blurted.  "Men  don't 
change.  Conditions  change,  and  dam  up  the 
currents  of  behavior  once  in  a  while;  but  men 
are  at  heart  just  the  same  now  as  they  were  in  the 
beginning.  What  makes  the  book  of  Genesis  so 
fascinating  to  us?  It's  because  we  know  exact- 
ly how  those  old  roosters  felt,  in  every  particular 
of  their  lives.  We  haven't  changed  a  bit.  Eat- 
ing and  drinking  and  breeding  and  loving  and 
hating  are  just  exactly  the  same  now  as  then. 
We've  built  up  a  glittering  system  of  ethics,  and 
we've  tabulated  our  morals,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing;  but  strip  away  the  rubbish  and  you'll 
find  the  old,  primal  man.  I've  known  the  time 
myself  when  I  was  almost  ready  to  go  out  on  the 
prairie  and  smear  paint  on  my  face  and  eat  raw 
liver." 

An  old  man  who  lounged  lightly  against  the 
porch-rail  spoke  mildly.  "A  little  excessive,  my 
friend.  We're  not  altogether  wise;  but  we're 
growing  wiser." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Watson  retorted,  stoutly. 
"We're  moving  faster  than  they  did  two  thou- 
sand years  ago — we've  quickened  the  pace  of  our 

172 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

folly,  that's  all.  We  do  the  same  old,  mad  things 
in  half  the  time,  and  brag  about  the  advance  of 
civilization.  I  tell  you,  those  fellows  down  there 
aren't  a  whit  less  plastic  under  the  hands  of  a 
born  manipulator  of  men  than  the  children  of 
Israel  were.  A  born  leader  can  take  a  mob  at 
any  time  and  do  what  he  likes  with  it.  It  doesn't 
matter  whether  he's  a  sage  or  a  charlatan,  so  long 
as  he  knows  how  to  play  on  the  few  simple  strings 
that  make  human  nature.  If  he  can  do  that,  he 
can  make  them  follow  like  sheep  in  the  direction 
of  his  own  ruling  passion." 

The  crowd  had  suddenly  quickened  into  new 
movement.  A  commotion  had  started  at  the 
western  side  of  the  square,  around  the  corner, 
out  of  sight  from  the  porch,  and  the  populace 
was  drifting  strongly  in  that  direction.  There 
was  a  new  sound  in  its  cry;  the  deep  bass  growl 
was  broken  into  a  strident,  high-pitched  yell, 
filling  the  street  with  shrill  echoes. 

"Something's  doing!"  one  of  the  spectators 
called  out.  "They've  started  a  fight,  likely,  or 
else  they've  run  against  the  police." 

It  was  more  than  that.  From  the  alley  open- 
ing into  Eighteenth  Street,  opposite  the  jail,  a 
score  of  men  had  burst,  running  in  a  compact 
wedge,  forcing  a  way  for  themselves.  They  wore 
cloth  masks  over  their  faces,  and  were  heavily 
armed  with  sledges  and  crow-bars;  and  support- 
ed on  a  half-dozen  shoulders  were  two  lengths 
of  railroad  iron.     They  were  few  in  number,  but 

173 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

they  were  more  potent  than  the  gaping  thousands, 
for  they  had  a  purpose.  They  made  no  noise,  but 
their  grim  silence  was  a  greater  menace  than  all 
the  inarticulate  babel  that  swelled  around  them. 

The  attack  was  well  timed.  The  steep  drive- 
way that  led  up  to  the  jail  was  defended  at  its 
mouth  by  a  detachment  of  police,  armed  like 
the  rest,  ancl  formidable  in  fighting  strength; 
but  through  several  hours  they  had  been  oc- 
cupied with  nothing  graver  than  the  fretting 
work  of  holding  in  check  a  good-natured  rabble. 
They  had  given  up  the  idea  of  serious  trouble, 
and  had  relaxed  their  earlier  vigilance.  The 
sudden,  determined  rush  of  this  score  of  men 
came  with  the  shock  of  complete  surprise.  The 
crowd  opened  its  ranks  before  the  energetic 
charge  and  let  them  come  into  sharp  contact  with 
the  police.  The  weary  sergeant  in  command  hes- 
itated for  a  fateful  instant;  before  he  recovered 
his  wits  the  maskers  had  thrown  themselves 
heavily  against  the  line  of  defence,  crumpling  it, 
sweeping  it  aside.  The  eager  host  closed  after 
them,  following  in  their  steps,  delirious  now  with 
excitement.  Within  a  dozen  seconds  the  leaders 
were  at  the  jail  doors,  and  the  spaces  around  were 
choked  full  of  shrieking  rioters.  The  guards  at 
the  other  entrances  left  their  posts,  running  up 
to  lend  aid,  and  the  crowds  on  all  sides  of  the 
square,  now  quite  unrestrained,  poured  in  by  ev- 
ery avenue.  Over  their  outcry  sounded  the  first 
strong  blows  of  the  sledges  against  the  outer  doors 

174 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

of  the  jail,  swung  by  powerful  arms.  The  police 
could  do  nothing;  they  were  tossed  about  like 
drift  in  a  swirling  eddy,  hatless,  struggling,  spent, 
impotent.  They  became  no  more  effectual  for 
order  than  so  many  women;  they  were  merely 
units  in  the  multitude,  and  must  await  its  will. 

Watson  dragged  David  to  a  place  on  the  rear 
steps  of  the  court-house,  whence  a  view  could  be 
had  of  what  was  going  on.  A  gigantic  fellow, 
stripped  of  his  coat,  his  grimy  arms  bared  to  the 
elbows,  his  shoulders  knotted  with  thick  welts  of 
muscle,  stood  foremost  in  the  group  of  masked 
leaders,  swinging  a  hammer  with  mighty  strength. 
The  door  had  not  been  built  to  resist  such  assault 
from  without;  already  the  blows  were  showing 
effect.  The  man  knew  where  to  strike,  and  iron 
and  wood  alike  were  splintering  and  giving  way. 
It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes  of  such 
work  until  the  outer  door  would  be  passed. 

"They'll  get  him,  sure!"  Watson  shouted  above 
the  turmoil.  "There'll  be  one  more  devil  in  hell 
before  morning,  thank  God!"  He  was  intoxicat- 
ed by  passion ;  the  veins  on  his  sweating  forehead 
were  swollen  with  blood,  standing  out  in  purple 
cords;  his  eyes  glittered;  his  lips  were  convulsed 
by  a  savage  laugh. 

A  window  opened  in  the  upper  story  of  the 
jail,  and  a  bearded  man  leaned  out,  calling  to 
those  below  with  emphatic  gestures,  shaking  a 
big  revolver  in  his  hand.  His  words  were  un- 
heeded, unheard.     The  crowd  broke  into  a  cheer, 

175 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

and  another  man  joined  the  giant  who  swung  the 
sledge,  adding  the  din  of  a  second  hammer. 

"That's  the  sheriff!"  Watson  cried.  "He's 
got  his  men  inside.  They'll  have  him  to  deal 
with  before  they  get  to  the  cells,  and  it  won't  be 
child's  play.  He'll  fight  as  long  as  there's  any 
fight  left  in  him.  He'll  shoot  to  kill,  too.  They've 
got  a  man  to  reckon  with  there." 

A  wilder  cheer  went  up.  One  of  the  heavy 
hinges  had  broken  at  last,  and  the  door  was 
tilting  outward  at  the  top.  The  sheriff  ceased 
his  efforts  and  retired  within,  closing  the  win- 
dow. 

Watson  pulled  at  David's  sleeve.  "Come  on," 
he  said.  "  We'll  go  home  now.  I  don't  want  to 
see  the  rest;  do  you?" 

David  had  been  for  an  hour  like  a  man  held  by 
the  horror  of  nightmare,  his  mind  asleep,  except 
for  the  power  to  see  and  hear.  Understanding 
had  been  dulled  by  an  abnormal  fixedness  of  at- 
tention on  the  rushing  procession  of  facts.  He 
had  hardly  spoken;  he  had  merely  looked  and 
listened.  But  now  he  felt  the  blood  rush  into 
his  brain,  and  his  mind  started  broad  awake  in  a 
flash. 

"  Watson !"  he  cried.  "  In  Heaven's  name,  what 
are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Nothing!"  Watson  answered,  roughly. 
"There's  nothing  for  us  to  do.  It  isn't  our 
funeral."  He  laughed  aloud  in  barbaric  relish. 
"  This  is  one  of  the  functions  of  the  great  Amer- 

176 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ican  people,  Boughton.  They're  administering 
government.  I'm  going  home  to  bed,  and  you'd 
better  come,  too.  They'll  look  after  the  little  de- 
tails, and  we  can  read  about  it  in  the  morning. 
Come  on." 

"  No!"  David  screamed,  in  an  ecstasy  of  excite- 
ment. "Watson!  What  are  you  thinking  of? 
Is  that  your  idea  of  law?" 

"  Oh!  Law!"  Watson  returned,  with  the  same 
bitter  laugh.  "The  law  has  just  fallen  back  for 
an  hour  or  so  into  the  hands  of  the  people  who 
made  it  —  that's  all.  What's  the  difference? 
They'll  do  a  quick  job,  and  they'll  save  him  and 
everybody  else  months  of  useless  worry.  It  '11 
come  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  if  justice 
doesn't  miscarry.  We  can't  do  anything,  any- 
way." 

"  We  can  try!  Good  God,  we  can  try!"  David 
caught  Watson  by  one  massive  shoulder,  shak- 
ing it  in  a  fury  of  protest.  "Watson!  Man!  If 
justice  means  anything  at  all,  it  doesn't  mean 
that!  What's  got  into  you?  They'll  kill  him! 
There's  not  a  man  lifting  a  hand  to  stop  it. 
They'll  kill  him,  I  tell  you!" 

Watson's  figure  was  immovable,  granitic  in  its 
absolute  impassivity. 

"Kill  him,  will  they?  Well,  let  'em!  He's 
earned  killing,  if  ever  a  man  did  in  this  world." 
He  held  his  clinched  fists  above  his  head,  shaking 
them  in  a  frenzy  towards  the  jail.  "I'd  not  hold 
up  one  finger  to  save  him  from  any  doom  they 

177 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

could  hatch  for  him.     I  hate  him!     I  hate  him! 
— hate  him! — hate  him!" 

David  grew  hot  with  quick  anger,  the  flaming 
indignation  which  does  not  measure  its  words. 
"Stay  here,  then!"  he  cried.  "  I'm  going  down." 
It  was  the  spirit  of  the  citizen  that  was  aroused 
in  him  now — the  spirit  of  the  protestant  against 
unbridled  force  in  antagonism  to  law.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  would  try  to  do,  more  than  to 
set  his  will  somehow  against  that  of  the  rioters; 
he  did  not  stop  to  consider  how  much  alone  he 
would  be  in  the  effort,  unknown  as  he  was;  it 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  appeal  for  aid  to  those 
around  him.  He  sprang  down  the  steps  and  into 
the  crowd,  struggling  resolutely  towards  the  jail 
door.  It  was  no  time  for  gentle  manners;  he 
used  the  utmost  strength  of  his  sinewy  legs  and 
heavy-muscled  shoulders,  setting  his  teeth  to- 
gether in  grim  silence,  battling  for  every  foot  of 
the  way.  The  crowd  resented  his  rough  vigor, 
swearing  at  him  and  opposing  his  every  step  with 
harshness.  His  coat  was  split  from  collar  to 
waist;  his  hat  was  crushed  over  his  eyes;  despite 
the  chill  of  the  air,  his  face  dripped  with  perspira- 
tion and  his  deep  lungs  gasped  for  breath.  A 
drunken  fellow,  unsteady  on  his  legs,  struck  out 
savagely  with  a  bony  fist,  catching  David  on  the 
cheek  and  bringing  a  spurt  of  blood ;  his  hat  fell 
off  and  was  trampled  under  foot.  Still  he  kept 
on,  fighting,  panting.  At  last  he  came  to  the 
steps,  where  the  leaders  were  at  work. 

178 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

The  giant  with  the  sledge  had  made  good  use 
of  the  time,  swinging  his  weapon  with  muscles 
tireless  as  steel,  his  blows  regular  as  pulses.  Both 
hinges  were  broken  now,  and  the  door  hung  tot- 
tering, supported  only  by  its  bolts.  The  mob 
was  gathering  closer,  shrieking  insanely,  making 
ready  for  the  next  decisive  move  in  the  game. 
The  great  hammer  fell  with  a  ringing  stroke  and 
was  lifted  again.  David  leaped  forward  and 
stood  upon  the  steps,  facing  the  worker,  catching 
one  brawny  wrist  in  both  hands  and  throwing 
all  his  weight  against  it,  so  that  the  descending 
sledge  swept  out  sidewise  in  a  wide  arc,  its  force 
impotently  spent. 

"Stop!"  he  cried.  He  set  his  back  against  the 
swaying  door,  bracing  his  feet  on  the  stone  steps, 
squaring  his  shoulders  for  the  struggle  which  he 
knew  must  come. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  perplexed  pause. 
The  fallen  hammer  hung  idle,  and  the  menacing 
scream  of  the  crowd,  tense  an  instant  before,  was 
modulated  into  a  futile,  surprised  babble.  David 
had  appeared  without  warning;  his  audacious, 
single  -  handed  interference  and  his  distraught 
aspect  seemed  to  break  the  current  of  purpose. 
His  clothing  was  in  wild  disarray;  his  thick  hair 
lay  in  a  disordered  mop  over  his  forehead,  cling- 
ing in  damp  strands  to  the  skin;  the  blood  from 
the  wound  on  his  cheek  was  clotted  and  smeared, 
and  his  collar  and  shirt  were  stained  darkly  by 
the  fallen  drops.     The  leader,  embarrassed  by  his 

179 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

hot  mask  of  black  cloth,  tore  it  from  his  face  and 
threw  it  upon  the  stones,  then  drew  his  thick,  hairy 
arm  slowly  across  his  face,  wet  with  sweat.  But 
this  suspense  lasted  for  only  a  few  seconds — just 
long  enough  to  allow  two  or  three  deep,  gasping 
breaths ;  then  the  giant  stooped,  grasped  the  stout 
handle  of  his  weapon  in  both  hands,  and  swung  it 
high  over  his  head,  taking  a  step  forward,  his  eyes 
blazing  with  wrath,  his  convulsed  lips  forming  a 
ragged  oath. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  or  I'll  brain  you!"  he 
shouted.  David  saw  the  powerful  muscles  swell- 
ing for  the  blow  and  heard  the  excited  scream  of 
the  onlookers,  shrill  with  impatience  over  the  de- 
lay. But  he  would  not  move  aside ;  a  desperate, 
unreasoning  determination  was  upon  him  to  stand 
where  he  was  and  to  take  what  might  come,  even 
to  death,  rather  than  give  way  now.  He  raised 
his  arms  over  his  head  in  a  lingering  impulse  of 
defence ;  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his  lips  and  tongue 
were  parched  dry;  the  seething  mob,  under  the 
glare  of  the  swinging  electric  lamps,  became  a 
wide,  blurred  blot  before  his  eyes.  Then,  at  the 
end  of  that  breathless  instant,  a  huge  figure  threw 
itself  before  him,  confronting  the  enraged  fellow 
with  the  hammer,  breast  to  breast,  and  a  thun- 
derous voice  bellowed  above  the  clamor: 

"  Stop !     Stand  back !     Back,  I  say !     Get  back!" 

There  was  magic  in  it — the  inexplicable  magic 

of  a  mighty  will.     The  packed  mass  fell  away  as 

before  the  levelled  muzzles  of  arms,   leaving  a 

1 80 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

broad,  clear  space  on  the  flagged  pavement;  and 
in  that  space  stood  Watson,  erect,  burly,  gigantic, 
his  great  shoulders  heaving,  his  big  face  purple 
with  passion. 

"  What  are  you  doing?"  he  roared.  "  Drop  that 
sledge,  Stevens.  Drop  it /"  He  did  not  raise  his 
hands ;  his  fists  hung  clinched  at  his  sides.  He  was 
fighting  with  his  will  alone — that  and  his  terrible 
voice.  But  the  heavy  weapon  fell  with  a  clatter 
upon  the  stones,  and  the  faces  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  rioters  were  blank  with  dismay.  David,  too, 
was  dazed  by  the  sharp  shock  of  the  unexpected ; 
he  stood  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  a  mere 
spectator  now,  listening  curiously  to  Watson's 
booming  cry. 

"  What  are  you  trying  to  do?"  Watson  bellowed 
again.  "  You're  a  shame  on  the  name  of  citizen- 
ship and  manhood !  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Stevens 
— you  brute  fool — you  anarchist — you  outlaw !  Is 
this  the  measure  of  your  responsibility?  Is  this 
your  sense  of  integrity?  I'd  always  thought  you 
a  man!  You're  a  disgrace  to  public  decency! 
You're  as  much  a  criminal  now  as  Bronson.  If 
you  had  your  deserts,  you'd  be  sharing  his  cell 
with  him . "  He  stepped  one  long  stride  nearer  the 
cowed  giant,  shaking  a  knotted  fist  in  his  face. 
"  Lift  your  hand  to  this  business  again,  if  you  dare, 
and  I'll  see  that  you  get  your  just  reward — you 
and  all  your  pack — if  it  takes  the  last  dollar  I  have 
on  earth  and  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  my  body! 
You  attend  to  what  I  say.     I'll  make  your  life  a 

181 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

hell  for  you,  till  you'll  be  glad  to  quit  it  at  the  end 
of  a  rope!" 

But  the  tension  was  too  great  to  endure.  Those 
farther  back  in  the  crowd,  beyond  the  influence 
of  this  sturdy  presence,  failing  to  understand  the 
sudden  stoppage  of  the  work  upon  which  all  had 
been  so  deeply  intent  a  little  time  before,  began 
another  boisterous  demonstration,  their  voices 
swelling  again  into  one  strong,  deep-toned,  ring- 
ing cry,  and  the  front  rank  was  pushed  forward  by 
an  irresistible  pressure.  A  stone,  thrown  by  some 
impatient  hand,  flew  in  a  wide  arc  over  the  throng- 
ed heads  and  fell  with  a  sounding  blow  against 
the  iron  plates  of  the  door ;  another  missile  struck 
one  of  the  upper  windows,  and  the  shivered  glass 
fell  in  a  shower  upon  the  stone  steps  beneath. 
Watson's  great  voice  was  hardly  to  be  heard  now 
over  the  rising  tumult;  only  his  huge  body  and 
his  threatening  attitude  prevented  an  immediate 
renewal  of  the  attack.  But  his  intervention  was 
enough.  In  those  few  moments  a  half-score  of 
police  had  forced  their  way  to  the  front,  and  now 
mounted  the  steps,  their  revolvers  drawn ;  others 
were  crowding  forward,  swinging  their  clubs  lustily 
upon  those  who  opposed  their  way.  Suddenly  a 
rifle-shot  rang  out  from  above,  and  the  rioters 
turned  their  faces  upward,  startled  into  another 
brief  interval  of  quiet.  .  A  stentorian  voice  shouted 
from  the  roof  of  the  jail  : 

"I   have  twenty  men   up   here,   armed!     The 
man  in  that  crowd  who  dares  take  one  step  out  of 

182 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that  line  towards  the  jail  will  be  shot!     You  know 
me.     I  mean  what  I  say!" 

The  little  force  of  police,  swelled  by  a  few  addi- 
tions to  their  number  who  had  succeeded  in  get- 
ting through  the  jam,  moved  forward  determin- 
edly, breasting  the  mob,  threatening  with  club 
and  pistol.  The  interruption  had  diverted  the 
thoughts  of  the  people  for  a  time  from  their  wild 
design;  the  leader  had  suffered  defeat  in  his  en- 
counter with  Watson,  and  no  one  offered  to  take 
his  place.  A  mob  without  a  leader  is  incapa- 
ble of  action.  Slowly,  stubbornly,  sullenly,  the 
line  gave  way,  falling  back  upon  itself.  There 
was  no  longer  a  dominant,  angry,  single  voice, 
but  a  confused  jargon.     The  danger  was  over. 


XVIII 

DAVID  awoke  late,  after  a  profound,  dream- 
less sleep.  The  sun  shone  brilliantly  through 
his  wide-open  windows,  flooding  the  room  with 
a  white  glare,  and  the  air  was  jarring  with  the 
myriad  noises  of  the  day's  activity  on  the  paved 
streets,  now  in  full  flow.  The  unmistakable  late- 
ness of  the  hour  confused  him  greatly,  used  as  he 
was  to  rising  at  daybreak;  for  the  moment  his 
mind  was  a  blank  as  to  what  had  preceded  sleep, 
but  when  he  started  briskly  from  his  bed  then 
every  muscle  of  his  body  was  wrung  with  pain, 
every  strained  nerve  cried  a  protest,  and  he  re- 
membered. He  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  his 
bed,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  supported 
in  his  hands,  dwelling  with  intent  appreciation 
upon  the  events  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours  as 
they  disentangled  themselves  and  fell  into  order- 
ly procession  for  review.  He  got  to  his  feet  and 
took  a  stiff  turn  about  the  room,  stretching  his 
legs  and  arms  and  discovering  the  centres  of 
tenderness.  Then  he  broke  into  his  irrepressible 
laugh. 

"Well,  son,"  he  said,  aloud,  "you're  getting  a 
taste  of  high  life  now,  aren't  you?     By  ginger! 

184 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

this  certainly  does  beat  farming  for  excitement. 
But  I  don't  want  it  to  happen  every  day.  Thun- 
der! how  I  do  hurt!" 

Sitting  at  his  breakfast,  he  opened  his  morning 
paper.  The  front  page  was  ominous  with  a  big 
expanse  of  black  head-lines.  "  Homicide,  Horror, 
and  Heroism!"  ran  the  first,  followed  by  a  bold 
succession  of  others,  in  a  gradually  descending 
scale  of  blackness,  setting  forth  a  skeleton  outline 
of  the  exciting  story.  "  Splendid  Coolness  and 
Courage  Prevent  Ghastly  Crime,"  said  a  lower 
line.  "  Mob  Thwarted  by  Young  Law  Student. 
David  Boughton,  Hero."  In  the  centre  of  the 
page  was  a  group  of  three  rough  line  portraits, 
one  of  the  murdered  man,  one  of  the  luckless 
Bronson,  and  the  third,  an  audacious  fiction  of 
the  zealous  artist's  imagination,  bearing  his  own 
name. 

David  stared  in  utter  amazement.  Not  once 
had  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  escapade  would 
entail  notoriety;  his  mental  habit  was  too  spon- 
taneous for  that.  For  himself,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered the  whole  thing  but  a  spirited  adventure, 
closed  with  the  act  and  the  night's  sleep ;  yet  here 
it  was,  hardily  perpetuated  to  another  day,  thrust 
brazenly  in  upon  his  accustomed  placid  privacy. 
As  he  followed  the  turbulent  narrative  down  the 
column,  with  its  riotous  superlatives,  its  sweeping 
disregard  of  anything  like  precision,  its  gross  sen- 
sationalism, and,  above  all,  its  insistence  upon 
the  heroics  of  his  own  part  in  it,  he  tingled  with 

185 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

irritation.  Watson's  more  effective  achievement 
was  made  quite  incidental  to  his  own. 

He  left  the  table  abruptly  and  hurried  to  the 
office.  The  door  was  locked,  though  it  was  now 
eleven  o'clock.  Within  were  the  tidy  signs  of 
the  little  stenographer's  attention  to  her  morning 
duties,  but  her  chair  was  empty.  As  he  stood 
by  the  table,  turning  over  a  heap  of  the  morning 
papers,  each  with  its  own  recklessly  graphic  ac- 
count of  the  night's  happenings,  she  came  in  hur- 
riedly, dressed  as  though  from  the  street.  When 
she  saw  him,  her  usually  demure  face  flashed  into 
a  smile. 

"Why,  Mr.  Boughton!"  she  cried.  After  an 
instant's  hesitation  she  approached  him  with  a 
shy  offer  of  her  small  hand,  her  eyes  alight.  "I 
didn't  think  you'd  be  down  to-day.  Goodness! 
Wasn't  it  perfectly  awful?  But  you've  stood  it 
a  great  deal  better  than  Mr.  Watson.  He's  sick 
in  bed  over  it — just  prostrated.  He  had  me  take 
his  mail  down  to  him,  but  he  couldn't  look  at  it 
when  I  got  it  there.  He's  all  gone  to  pieces." 
She  paused,  looking  up  at  him  with  modest  shy- 
ness. "You  must  let  me  say  it!"  she  cried, 
warmly.     "It  was  just  splendid  in  you!" 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  he  begged. 

He  was  suddenly  sobered  by  her  news.  "I 
wonder  if  I  oughtn't  to  go  down?  Maybe  I  can 
do  something.  I  think  I'll  go  and  see,  anyway. 
I'll  come  back  again  in  a  little  while  and  help 
you  run  things.     There'll  be  a  lot  to  do,  most 

1 86 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

likely,  with  the  politicians  and  all.  I'll  come 
back  as  soon  as  I  can." 

At  the  hotel  he  was  shown  to  Watson's  parlor, 
where  he  sat  in  waiting  for  many  minutes.  Wat- 
son's room  adjoined  the  parlor,  and  through  the 
closed  door  came  a  low,  steady  flow  of  voices — 
one,  a  heavy  bass,  going  on  and  on  in  an  excited 
monologue,  with  others  putting  in  now  and  then 
a  quieter  sentence.  As  he  listened,  gradually 
the  stress  of  the  hurried  voice  grew  less,  with 
longer  and  longer  breaks,  sinking  at  last  into 
silence.  For  ten  minutes  the  silence  continued 
unbroken ;  then  the  door  was  opened  noiselessly 
and  Margaret  entered. 

She  was  clad  with  extreme,  almost  rigorous, 
simplicity,  in  a  loose  morning -robe  of  creamy 
white,  which  draped  her  slender  figure  in  long, 
sweeping  lines  from  shoulder  to  foot,  the  lines 
only  slightly  broken  at  the  waist  by  a  corded 
girdle.  A  profusion  of  yellow  lace  encircled  her 
throat  and  fell  from  her  short  sleeves  over  her 
round  forearms.  Her  black  hair  was  gathered 
lightly  back  from  her  forehead  and  lay  upon  her 
shoulders  in  two  superb,  lustrous  braids,  tied  with 
bows  of  scarlet  ribbon.  There  was  a  subtle, 
clear  pallor  in  her  dusky  skin ;  but  her  lips,  slightly 
parted  over  immaculate  teeth,  were  brilliant  as 
flame. 

She  paused  at  the  threshold,  closing  the  door 
with  painstaking  quiet,  then  turned  and  confront- 
ed David,  who  stood  apart  at  the  width  of  the 

187 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

room.  She  did  not  speak,  nor  did  he;  but  their 
glances  met  and  held  together.  He  stood  quite 
still,  waiting,  while  she  came  towards  him  with 
swift,  light  step,  giving  him  both  her  hands.  He 
took  them  in  a  firm  clasp  and  held  them.  They 
were  tremulous,  and  the  tremor  passed  into  his 
own  strong  fingers,  along  his  muscled  arms,  and 
possessed  the  breadth  of  his  sturdy  body.  Her 
wonderful  eyes  encountered  his  steadfastly,  with 
no  sign  of  weak  confusion.  No  word  passed 
between  them.  He  stood  looking  down  into  her 
face — looking  and  looking,  as  though  he  would 
never  get  enough  of  it,  thrilling  with  an  unrea- 
soning, delirious  consciousness  that  in  that  in- 
stant he  was  wholly  mastered,  overborne,  helpless, 
robbed  of  all  volition  by  her  radiant  presence. 
He  felt  his  heart  leap,  heard  the  warm,  rushing 
blood  singing  in  his  brain,  and  saw  that  her 
bosom  was  troubled  by  the  agitated  indrawing 
of  her  breath. 

"Your  hands  are — cold,"  he  said,  in  a  harsh 
whisper.  Upon  uncontrollable  impulse  he  would 
have  drawn  her  to  him;  but  a  startled  light  rose 
from  the  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  she  released 
herself  with  a  quick,  gasping  murmur. 

"  No,  no!  Forgive  me.  I  wanted  to  thank  you 
for  —  for  my  poor  father's  sake  —  for  what  you 
have  done  for  him.  You — you  don't  know — " 
She  turned  away,  as  though  struggling  to  hide 
her  confusion,  and  seated  herself  in  her  father's 
chair  by  the  window,  gazing  out  across  the  city. 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

After  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  again  with 
serene,  composed  eyes,  her  head  falling  lightly 
back  against  the  cushion,  her  small  hands  lying 
upon  the  padded  chair-arms.  The  glowing  noon- 
day sunlight  touched  her  gown  and  was  reflect- 
ed upward  upon  her  face,  casting  it  into  strong 
relief  against  the  deep,  crimson  background  of 
upholstery.  A  warm  blush  lingered  briefly  in  her 
cheeks,  then  passed,  leaving  no  trace.  She  seem- 
ed wonderfully  childlike  and  fragile,  resting  half 
buried  in  the  chair's  huge  hollow.  Irresistibly 
David  moved  towards  her  and  sat  down  by  her 
side. 

"Tell  me,  what  is  it  about  your  father?"  he 
asked,  with  what  quiet  he  could  command.  "  Is 
he  really  very  ill?" 

"I  hope  not,"  she  answered;  "still,  I'm  afraid. 
He  hasn't  been  able  to  sleep,  and  there's  a  high 
fever.  His  doctor  has  been  in  two  or  three 
times  this  morning,  to  administer  sedatives;  and 
he's  just  now  injected  morphine.  He's  gone  to 
sleep,  but  the  fever  is  increasing,  and  I  think 
the  doctor  is  worried  over  it,  though  he  pretends 
not  to  be.  I'm  very  much  afraid  he's  going  to 
be  ill." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  think  that,"  David  urged, 
cheerily.  "  I  shouldn't  be  frightened,  if  I  were 
you,  until  I  saw  what  a  day's  rest  will  do  for  him. 
Maybe  that's  all  he  needs.  I  had  a  good  sleep, 
and  I  feel  as  fresh  as  ever  this  morning.  Why, 
he  can't  afford  to  be  sick  now;  there's  too  much 

189 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

depending  on  him  in  this  Senatorial  fight.     He 
must  get  well  again,  right  away." 

Her  glance  was  questioning;  her  hands  were 
playing  with  the  tasselled  ends  of  her  girdle. 
"Do  you  imagine  he  cares  for  that?"  she  asked. 
"  I've  never  been  sure  of  it,  for  myself;  but,  then, 
I  don't  see  him  as  you  do.  That  is — "  She 
checked  the  sentence  as  with  an  effort;  then, 
after  an  instant's  hesitation,  she  went  on  quietly: 
"My  father  doesn't  often  reveal  his  real  self  to 
me.  You  must  have  seen  something  of  his  feel- 
ing when  you've  been  here.  It  hasn't  always 
been  so.  When  I  was  a  little  girl,  we  used  to 
be  just  jolly  good  friends;  but  since  then  we've 
grown  apart  somehow — oh,  ever  so  far  apart.  I 
don't  know  why  it  is,  exactly,  but  I  suppose  I'm 
to  blame  for  a  great  deal  of  it."  She  paused 
again,  looking  at  him  with  a  soft,  wistful  reluc- 
tance, as  though  a  desire  for  frank  speech  was 
taking  account  of  the  chance  of  being  heard  with 
sympathy.  "  I  don't  care  very  much  for  people," 
she  said.  "I've  been  largely  alone,  and  I've 
gathered  my  own  little  interests,  altogether  dif- 
ferent from  his,  and  I  suppose  I've  gotten  too 
much  wrapped  up  in  them,  so  that  I  haven't 
lived  enough  with  him  and  for  him.  We've 
just  lost  a  common  understanding,  that's  all.  I 
have  only  a  vague,  intuitive  sort  of  knowledge  of 
what  he's  thinking  about  and  planning.  Well!" 
She  dismissed  her  seriousness  with  a  smile  and  a 
light  gesture,  recovering  her  wonted  self-posses- 

190 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

sion.  "I  ought  not  afflict  you  with  my  little 
distresses.  I  only  meant  to  say  that  I  can't  tell 
whether  he  is  really  interested  in  going  to  the 
Senate,  or  really  interested  in  anything,  and  liv- 
ing for  it." 

David  regarded  her  with  wonder,  almost  with 
pity.  Much  was  in  his  mind,  but  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say,  more  than  a  blunt:  "Oh 
yes;  he's  going  to  the  Senate,  all  right.  He's 
given  himself  up  to  it,  and  he's  going  to  win. 
I'm  sure  of  that." 

She  changed  her  posture,  drawing  her  hand 
wearily  over  her  eyes,  her  face  in  repose.  "I 
ought  not  have  spoken  as  I  did  to  you.  I  didn't 
stop  to  think.  I'm  very  tired.  I've  been  up 
most  of  the  night,  a.nd  then  this  excitement 
and  worry — it  has  unnerved  me  a  little,  I  sup- 
pose." 

David  arose,  standing  before  her.  "I'm  proud 
of  your  confidence,"  he  said,  simply.  "I'm  glad 
you've  told  me.  I'm  going  now,  but  I'll  come 
back  this  evening  to  see  how  your  father  is,  and 
whether  there's  anything  I  can  do." 

"Yes,  do,"  she  said,  rising.  All  constraint  was 
gone  from  her  manner  as  she  offered  her  hand  in 
parting.  "  Good-bye,"  she  said ;  then  added,  with 
impulsive  directness:  "You  did  a  brave  thing 
last  night,  Mr.  Boughton,  and  you  saved  my 
father  a  lifelong  regret.  It  has  made  me  think 
very  highly  of  you." 

"  Oh,  you  make  far  too  much  of  it,"  he  returned, 
191 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

in  real  embarrassment.  "It  was  your  father's 
doing,  not  mine." 

"Ah?"  she  smiled,  with  a  note  of  question  in 
the  word.  "The  final  accomplishment  was  his, 
perhaps;  but  the  motive  was  yours,  and  that  is 
what  counts.  He  would  not  have  acted  as  he  did 
but  for  you.  I  shall  say  no  more  about  it,  my 
friend,  if  it  distresses  you;  but  so  much  I  was 
bound  to  say,  whether  or  no." 

On  the  street  again,  David  turned  towards  the 
office;  but  on  the  steps  of  the  great  building  he 
changed  his  mind  and  kept  on  up  the  hill,  striking 
into  a  long,  swift  stride.  He  must  have  time  to 
think. 

As  he  hurried  onward,  for  a  while  there  was 
nothing  before  him  but  inextricable  confusion,  a 
wild  chaos,  not  of  thoughts',  but  of  swelling  emo- 
tions, too  big  and  turbulent  to  be  checked  and 
held  in  order.  Out  of  the  tangle,  one  element 
alone  rose  in  clear  and  vivid  relief.  It  was  the  face 
of  the  girl  he  had  just  left,  as  it  had  appeared  to 
him  at  the  moment  of  meeting.  Try  as  he  would 
— and  he  did  try — he  could  not  dismiss  it  from  his 
imagination.  After  a  time  he  ceased  the  useless 
effort,  and  let  the  image  remain,  dwelling  upon  it 
with  a  reckless  abandon  of  delight.  Its  every 
line,  its  every  least  fraction  of  expression  and  feel- 
ing, that  contributed  to  the  elusive  mystery  of  its 
loveliness,  was  as  present  before  him  as  when  she 
had  confronted  him  in  the  flesh.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful face,  quick  with  the  vital  charm  of  perfect 

192 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

womanhood.  Yes,  yes !  But  more  than  that  had 
been  revealed  to  him,  in  the  warmth  of  her  pres- 
ence, in  the  clinging  touch  of  her  hand,  in  the  well- 
ing light  of  her  glorious  eyes.  He  did  not  try 
to  analyze.  He  knew  what  he  had  seen,  and 
the  depths  of  his  body  and  soul  were  swept 
by  a  pulsing  wave  of  sheer  joy  in  the  realiza- 
tion. 

He  came  by-and-by  in  his  walk  to  the  wide 
seclusion  of  Hanscom  Park,  and,  leaping  down  a 
wooded  slope,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  grass 
beside  the  upper  lake,  lying  outstretched,  staring 
up  at  the  meshed  branches  above,  drawing  deep 
breaths  of  the  free  air,  smelling  the  sweet  odors  of 
the  near  earth,  feeling  the  genial  warmth  of  the 
sun  upon  his  upturned  face,  making  no  effort  of 
mind,  but  letting  his  thoughts  slip  slowly  back 
into  calm.  By-and-by  reaction  amounted  almost 
to  apathy.  He  sat  upright,  looking  at  the  fair 
scene  about  him,  amusing  himself  in  a  dull,  care- 
less way  by  shooting  little  pellets  of  earth  into  the 
moss-grown  brown  water  of  the  lake,  considering 
himself. 

"  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me?"  he  pon- 
dered. "I  can't  make  it  out.  I  thought  I  knew 
myself,  as  plain  as  day;  but  I  didn't.  I'm  just 
beginning  to  see  a  little  of  what  things  might 
mean.  What  bothers  me  is  that  I  don't  seem  to 
care  more.  A  man  oughtn't  to  be  like  that.  I 
ought  to  be  sorry,  and  ashamed,  and  full  of  a  sick 
sort  of  revulsion  against  it.  But  I'm  not.  I'm 
13  193 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

glad.     I  just  wonder  what  Ruth  would  think  of 
me,  if  she  knew." 

He  took  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  opened 
the  case,  bringing  Ruth's  likeness  to  view,  looking 
at  it  long  and  earnestly ;  then  shut  it  away  again 
with  a  stifled  sigh  and  got  to  his  feet. 

"  I  give  it  up,"  he  said.  "  I  guess  I'll  just  have 
to  wait  and  see." 

At  the  office  a  telegram  awaited  him.  It  was 
signed  by  Joe  Keller,  and  had  been  sent  from 
Waterloo  that  morning. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  it  read.  "Your  mother 
is  anxious.     Answer,  quick." 

As  he  read,  the  door  opened,  and  framed  in  the 
doorway  was  the  figure  of  Keller  himself,  a  trav- 
elling-bag in  his  hand,  his  coat  over  his  arm,  his 
serious  eyes  full  of  eager  anxiety.  At  sight  of 
David  his  expression  cleared  and  the  sober  lines 
of  his  face  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"You  young  rascal!"  he  said.  "You're  a  nice 
sort  of  chap,  aren't  you?" 

"Why,  Joe!"  David  cried,  with  pleased  warmth. 
1 '  Why,  what  in  the  world  brings  you  down  ?  Come 
in."   " 

"We'll  go  to  the  telegraph-office  first,  young- 
ster," Keller  returned.  "  Why  didn't  you  answer 
my  message?  Your  mother's  at  the  hotel  over 
there,  and  Uncle  Billy  has  been  camping  out  at 
the  station  since  morning,  making  life  a  burden 
for  the  operator.  I  had  hard  work  to  keep  him 
from  coming  on  to  Omaha  with  his  team." 

194 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

They  went  to  the  desk  in  the  rotunda  of  the 
building  and  despatched  a  reassuring  message, 
then  returned  to  David's  room  up-stairs  and  set- 
tled themselves  for  speech.  Keller  filled  his  pipe 
and  sat  by  the  open  west  window,  smoking  lazily, 
watching  the  blue  clouds  float  away  upon  the 
slow  air,  while  the  mellow  light  of  the  declining 
sun  fell  upon  him,  discovering  the  warm,  living 
tones  in  his  clear  skin  and  in  his  thick  brown  hair 
and  beard.  His  presence  was  very  human,  very 
calm,  very  comforting. 

"You  aren't  going  home  to-night?"  David 
asked. 

"  No,"  Keller  said.  "  I'm  going  to  stay  awhile, 
now  that  I'm  here — three  or  four  days,  most  like- 
ly, working  in  the  library.  I've  been  trying  to 
nerve  myself  to  it  for  a  good  while;  but  I'm 
too  contented  out  yonder,  and  it's  hard  to  break 
away.  Is  there  a  quiet  place  near  you  where  I 
can  stay?" 

"You'll  stay  with  me,  that's  what  you'll  do!" 
David  answered,  with  hearty  emphasis.  "Oh, 
that  '11  be  rich!  I've  been  busy,  Joe;  but  you 
can't  think  how  much  I've  missed  home.  Going 
out  on  Sundays  doesn't  help  me  much,  either;  it's 
only  a  quick  taste,  when  I  want  a  full  feed.  I 
don't  often  get  to  see  any  one  but  the  folks  at  the 
house.  I  didn't  get  out  at  all  last  Sunday,  either. 
Since  Mr.  Watson  has  gone  into  politics  I've  been 
trying  to  help  him.  I  was  with  them — with  him — 
last  Sunday;  and  now  that  he's  sick  it  isn't  likely 

195 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I'll  go  home  next  Sunday.  There's  no  one  but  me 
to  look  after  things.  I'll  write  mother  a  good  let- 
ter to-morrow,  though." 

"You  ought  to  be  at  home  as  much  as  you 
can,  Dave,"  Keller  said,  quietly.  "Don't  miss 
a  chance  to  go.     They  need  you,  too." 

His  serious  directness  gave  David  a  sudden 
uneasy  qualm.  "Why,  Joe,  there  isn't  anything 
the  matter?" 

"  Oh  no,  there's  nothing  the  matter,"  Keller  an- 
swered. "Everything  is  just  as  it  has  been,  ex- 
cept that  you're  gone.  Your  mother's  well  and 
happy  in  her  own  way.  But  she  misses  you,  you 
don't  know  how  sorely.  I've  been  with  her  a 
great  deal  through  these  few  weeks.  I  knew  you'd 
like  to  have  me,  and  I  like  it,  too,  because  I  think 
she's  beginning  to  take  a  liking  to  me.  It's  a  sort 
of  all-around  liking,  don't  you  see?  It's  been  a 
revelation  to  me.  It's  perfectly  wonderful  how  a 
mother  sinks  herself  in  her  children — a  mother 
like  yours;  and  the  pathos  of  it  grows  when  the 
children  really  don't  feel  the  need  of  her  devotion 
any  longer.  A  man  can't  begin  to  understand  it; 
he  hasn't  soul  enough.  I  know  you  won't  mind 
my  speaking  so  plainly,  will  you?  I'm  not  re- 
proving you,  Dave ;  I'm  merely  suggesting.  You're 
a  good  son.  Still,  I  know  the  feeling  of  confident 
youth,  that  doesn't  need  to  depend  upon  any  one. 
It's  a  glorious  feeling,  but  it's  apt  to  carry  one 
away.  If  I  had  a  mother,  knowing  what  I  know 
now,  I'd  spend  most  of  my  time  trying  to  make 

196 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

her  believe  that  I  was  afraid  to  take  a  step  with- 
out her  counsel." 

David  listened  with  frank  alertness,  his  lively 
eyes  contemplative.  Keller  dispelled  his  serious- 
ness with  a  smile. 

"Don't  take  it  too  hard,  old  man,"  he  said. 
"You  haven't  done  anything  reprehensible.  I 
was  just  talking  on  general  principles.  If  I  were 
you,  I'd  go  home  every  chance  I  got,  and  I'd  do 
everything  I  could  to  make  her  feel  that  you  need 
her  more  than  ever." 

"Yes,  Joe,"  David  said,  with  a  simple  grace  of 
friendliness,  which  could  not  take  offence  at  gen- 
erous intention.  Then:  "You  haven't  told  me 
a  thing  about  your  own  work,  Joe,"  he  said. 
"That's  what  I  want  to  hear  about.  We'll  have 
dinner,  and  go  down  and  ask  after  Watson,  and 
then  we'll  go  up  to  my  room  and  talk!  We'll  set 
a  pace  for  the  girls  to  follow.  Come  on.  I  told 
Miss  Watson  I'd  bring  you  to  her  when  you  came 
in.  You'll  like  her.  She's  seen  your  work,  and 
she's  capable  of  appreciating  it,  too." 

He  was  eager  for  his  own  next  meeting  with  the 
girl.  The  afternoon's  relaxation  had  abated  his 
agitation,  leaving  him  doubtful  of  his  thoughts, 
even  of  his  own  impressions  of  the  morning.  He 
wanted  to  see  her  again;  so  much  he  knew  cer- 
tainly, and  he  felt  a  warm  thrill  in  realizing  how 
great  his  desire  was.  Yet  he  was  glad  of  the 
presence  of  his  friend. 

Margaret  was  just  leaving  the  dining-room  as 
197 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

they  entered  the  gloomy  hotel  rotunda.  There 
was  a  shadow  of  constraint  in  the  informal  meet- 
ing, in  the  presence  of  the  many  onlookers  who 
lounged  about  in  the  stiff  rows  of  chairs,  idly 
turning  the  sheets  of  the  evening  papers  and 
chewing  upon  their  toothpicks.  David  felt,  too, 
that  the  girl  was  weary  after  her  day's  nursing, 
though  the  suggestion  was  not  in  her  appearance, 
but  rather  in  a  stately  quiet  of  manner  as  she 
spoke  a  few  reserved,  considered  words  of  greet- 
ing to  Keller.  There  was  no  awkwardness,  but 
only  a  lack  of  spontaneity.  She  led  the  way  in 
silence  to  the  parlor  above,  where  the  lights  were 
turned  low  and  the  air  was  tinctured  with  the 
odors  of  camphor.  The  door  into  Watson's  bed- 
room stood  ajar,  showing  semi-darkness  beyond, 
out  of  which  came  a  sound  of  deep  breathing. 

Margaret  closed  the  door  quietly,  then  turned 
to  them  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Be  seated,  please," 
she  said,  and  seated  herself  in  the  corner  by  the 
window,  out  of  the  full  glow  of  the  lights,  where 
she  could  feel  the  freshness  of  the  outer  air,  still 
balmy  as  in  September.  "I'm  sorry  to  welcome 
you  in  this  way,  Mr.  Keller,"  she  said;  "and  I'm 
sorry  to  have  you  miss  meeting  my  father.  I 
suppose  Mr.  Boughton  has  told  you  of  what  has 
happened?" 

"Yes,"  Keller  assented.  "How  is  your  father 
to-night?" 

"No  better,  I  fear,"  she  said,  gravely.  "His 
doctor  says  he  must  keep  his  bed  for  several  days, 

198 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

at  least.  He  has  been  over -excited  for  a  long 
time  about  many  things,  and  this  experience 
simply  served  to  hasten  the  reaction.  He  can 
sleep  only  with  sedatives,  and  when  he's  awake 
he's  tormented  by  anxiety  about  his  work.  He's 
one  of  those  who  don't  know  how  to  rest." 

There  was  a  quick,  querulous  call  from  the 
inner  room.  When  Margaret  opened  the  door, 
Watson's  voice  demanded:  "Is  that  Boughton 
out  there?     I  want  to  see  him." 

David  stood  by  the  bedside,  taking  Watson's 
big,  burning  hand  between  his  own.  "I'm  very 
sorry  we  wakened  you,"  he  said. 

"You  didn't  wake  me,"  Watson  retorted, 
brusquely.  "  It  doesn't  matter  if  you  did.  Say, 
have  you  been  out  to  see  Mrs.  Akin  to-day?" 

"No,  sir,  I  haven't,"  David  answered,  with 
quick  contrition.  "That's  too  bad.  I  haven't 
been  near  her  all  day." 

"  M— m!"  Watson  muttered.  "  Well,  then,  go! 
What  do  you  suppose  she'll  think  of  us?  It 
doesn't  make  any  difference  what  she  thinks; 
we  oughtn't  to  neglect  her  like  this.  Mag- 
gie, get  your  hat  and  go  out  with  Boughton 
and  see  if  there's  anything  she  needs.  Quick, 
now! 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "No,"  she  said, 
calmly,  "I  can't  go,  father.     I  must  stay  here." 

"Oh!"  Watson  cried,  in  nervous  exasperation. 
"You  do  as  I  tell  you.  There's  nothing  to  stay 
here  for.     I  can  dope  myself  while  you're  gone. 

199 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I  can't  rest  a  minute  until  I  know  how  she  is. 
Hurry,  Maggie!" 

"  Pardon  me,"  Keller  interposed,  from  the  door- 
way. "  Let  me  stay  with  Mr.  Watson.  I  should 
be  glad  to." 

"Yes,  yes!"  Watson  interrupted,  harshly. 
"That  '11  do  all  right.  You  stay  with  me,  then. 
Now  get  a  move  on  you,  Maggie." 

She  made  no  further  demur,  but  prepared  her- 
self for  the  street  and  went  out  with  David  to 
the  car.  She  seemed  to  be  in  no  mood  for  talking ; 
during  the  ride  she  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  car, 
leaning  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap,  volunteering  not  a  word,  and 
answering  David's  ventures  almost  with  reluctance. 
When  they  stood  before  the  gate,  at  the  end  of  their 
way,  she  hung  back  with  a  shuddering  sigh. 

"Must  I  go  in?"  she  breathed.  "I  can't  do 
any  good.     Let  me  wait  for  you  out  here." 

"  You'd  better  come,"  David  returned.  "  You'll 
be  of  more  account  than  I — a  woman  always  is  at 
such  times." 

"Very  well,"  she  answered,  and  followed  as  he 
led  the  way  around  to  the  back  door. 

The  tiny  kitchen  showed  no  change  since  the 
night  before;  a  fire  burned  briskly  in  the  little 
stove,  as  then,  and  the  one  dim  oil-lamp  struggled 
bravely.  Beside  the  stove  stood  the  old  wife's 
chair,  and  another  was  drawn  up  before  the  glow 
of  the  grate,  its  cushions  beaten  up  into  inviting 
lightness. 

200 


T,HE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Mrs.  Akin  herself  had  answered  the  knock  at 
the  door.  "Oh,  it's  Paul's  friend!"  she  said, 
when  her  squinting  eyes  were  sure  of  David's  face. 
"And  where's  Paul?     Ain't  he  come,  too?" 

"Mr.  Watson  isn't  feeling  well  to-day,"  David 
answered,  pressing  the  worn  old  hand.  "He 
wasn't  quite  able  to  come;  but  I've  brought  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Akin.     This  is  Miss  Margaret." 

The  old  woman  peered  at  the  girl  with  a  child- 
like eagerness.  "Paul's  da'ter?"  she  questioned. 
"Well,  I  do  say,  deary!  My,  my,  what  a  nice 
girl!  I  wonder  how  it  comes  I  'ain't  ever  seen 
you  before.  Come  right  over  by  the  fire  an'  sit 
down.  No,  not  that  place!"  she  interposed, 
quickly.  "  Here's  chairs.  That  one's  his'n.  It's 
a  foolish  notion,  maybe,  but  I  don't  want  nobody 
to  set  in  it  awhile  yet.  Now  you're  comforta- 
ble, ain't  you?  Well,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
both." 

"Are  you  all  alone?"  David  asked,  as  the  still- 
ness of  the  little  house  became  apparent. 

"Just  for  a  while,"  she  answered,  in  gentle 
deprecation.  "  Some  of  my  neighbors  has  been 
in  to  set  with  me  most  o'  the  day;  but  they've 
all  got  their  own  families  to  think  about,  too, 
you  know,  and  they've  gone  home  to  get  supper. 
They'll  be  comin'  back  pretty  soon.  I  'ain't  been 
a  bit  lonesome  all  day,  except  for  wantin'  to  see 
my  boy  Paul.  You  say  he's  sick?"  she  asked  of 
Margaret.     "  I  hope  it  ain't  nothin'  bad." 

"Oh  no!  He's  a  little  worn  out,  Mrs.  Akin, 
201 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that's  all,"  the  girl  answered.  "He'll  be  better 
again  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Of  course  he  will!"  the  old  woman  agreed 
readily.  "And  so  you're  his  da'ter!  Well,  now, 
that  seems  right  curious  to  me,  deary.  Somehow 
I  never  thought  about  Paul's  havin'  a  growed-up 
girl  like  you.  I  s'pose  it's  because  he's  always 
seemed  to  me  so  much  like  a  boy  hisself  —  so 
kind  o'  light-hearted  an'  full  o'  spirits,  you  know. 
I  knew  he  had  a  da'ter;  but  I  reckoned  you  was 
just  a  child.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  think 
so,  unless  maybe  it  was  just  my  not  seein'  you." 

Margaret's  eyes  were  large  and  intent  in  their 
puzzled  scrutiny;  but  she  said,  simply,  "You'll 
see  more  of  me  after  this." 

"  That's  nice,"  the  other  woman  returned.  "  I'll 
be  awful  glad  to  have  you  come — I'd  be  glad  for 
nothin'  except  just  your  belongin'  to  Paul;  but 
then  I'm  bound  to  like  you  for  yourself,  too,  I 
know,  because  you  look  like  such  a  good  girl.  I 
don't  see  how  you  could  help  bein',  with  Paul 
for  your  father.  He's  been  a  mighty  comfort  to 
us — me  an'  Mart.  Oh !  I  expect  you'd  like  to  see 
Mart,  wouldn't  you?"  she  interjected,  suddenly, 
with  a  note  of  kindly  indulgence.  "  Why,  of 
course  you  would!  They  brought  him  home  this 
afternoon,  all  fixed  up  so  nice  I  wa'n't  right  sure 
'twas  him  at  first.  He's  in  the  parlor.  Come  right 
on  in  and  I'll  show  him  to  you." 

She  took  the  lamp  from  the  table  and  opened 
the  door  leading  into  the  front  room,  entering 

202 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ahead.  Margaret  laid  a  nervous  hand  upon 
David's  arm  and  clung  to  him  for  a  moment, 
trembling;  then  followed  with  rapid  step. 

It  was  a  barren  little  room,  like  the  other, 
but  instead  of  an  air  of  homely  cheer  there  was 
upon  it  that  stiff  coldness  which  marks  poverty's 
bravest  pretensions  to  grandeur.  Starched  muslin 
curtains  hung  like  sheets  of  ice  over  the  square 
windows;  against  the  gaudily  papered  wall  for- 
bidding hair-cloth  chairs  were  ranged  in  an  at- 
titude of  grim  formality;  and  from  the  ceiling 
depended  an  ugly,  glittering  brass  lamp,  dangling 
its  score  of  iridescent  glass  prisms.  But  these 
poor  details  were  of  little  moment,  once  the  eye 
had  perceived  the  silent,  black-draped  presence 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  looming  large  in  the 
feeble  light,  its  huge,  sombre  shadow  obscuring 
all  that  lay  beyond. 

The  old  wife  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  bier, 
turning  back  the  coffin-lid  with  a  steady  hand, 
bringing  to  view  the  dead  face.  David  offered 
to  take  the  lamp  from  her  grasp,  but  she  checked 
the  movement. 

"No,  I  can  hold  it  all  right.  I  won't  let  it 
drop."  Her  calm  was  as  perfect  as  that  of  the 
dead  body,  her  face  as  steadfast  and  as  free  of 
pain.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  lightly  arranged 
a  lock  of  silvery  hair  that  lay  over  the  unruffled 
brow,  and  her  fingers  showed  no  tremor. 

"  I  ain't  grievin',"  she  said,  with  sweet  placidity. 
"I  know  it's  best.     He  was  a  good  man,  and  he 

203 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

was  always  willin'  the  Lord  should  have  His  way. 
I  know  he  don't  mind  bein'  dead ;  and  why  should 
I  mind,  if  he  don't?"  She  bent  low  over  the  un- 
responsive face,  speaking  to  it  with  an  unfathom- 
able gentleness.  "  No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  grieve  an- 
other mite,  dear  heart,  because  I  know  you're 
well,  an'  stout,  an'  happy,  an'  waitin'  for  me  to 
come.  An'  it  won't  be  long — no,  no;  it  '11  be  just 
a  little  while,  my  husband!" 

Margaret  had  stood  apart,  looking  on  in  deep 
agitation.  As  though  fascinated,  she  drew  near- 
er, step  by  step,  her  ringers  knotted  together,  her 
parted  lips  colorless,  her  tense  body  bent  forward, 
her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  inscrutable  gray  face. 
Upon  irresistible  impulse  she  put  out  her  hand 
and  lightly  touched  the  quiet  forehead,  then 
drew  back  with  a  smothered,  gasping  cry  and 
fled  from  the  room. 

Mrs.  Akin  closed  the  casket  gently  and  followed 
after  the  girl,  who  stood  beside  the  glowing  stove, 
cowering,  shaking,  her  eyes  burning,  her  cheeks 
of  a  livid  pallor. 

"Oh,  please  shut  the  door!"  she  begged,  her 
pleading  hands  outstretched. 

"Why,  Miss  Watson!"  David  cried,  in  astonish- 
ment. She  seized  upon  him  like  one  drowning, 
clutching  him,  hiding  her  terrified  face  against 
him. 

"Oh,  please  take  me  away!"  she  whispered,  in 
an  agony  of  emotion. 

The  elder  woman  saw  and  understood.  "  Yes," 
204 


"'oh,  please  take  me  away!'" 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

she  said,  "  I  guess  she  better  go.  There's  nothing 
you  can  do  now.  There  '11  be  somebody  comin' 
in  in  a  minute  or  so.  That's  right;  you  take  her 
out,  poor  lamb!" 

On  the  street,  under  the  brilliant  stars,  with 
the  warm,  living  air  breathing  upon  her,  the  girl 
controlled  herself  with  a  great  effort.  "  How 
foolish  of  me!"  she  said,  with  an  hysterical, 
mirthless  laugh.  "  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  I 
never  saw  death  before;  and,  oh,  it's  dreadful, 
dreadful,  dreadful!  I'll  never  forget  it  while 
I  live — the  terror  of  it,  and  the  awful  stillness. 
Oh,  I  wonder  why  we  must  die!" 

Moved  by  a  great,  pitying  tenderness,  David 
put  his  arm  about  her  bowed  shoulders  and 
drew  her  firmly  to  his  side,  holding  her  close, 
stooping  above  her.  She  did  not  resist;  she  lay 
quite  still  for  the  space  of  three  hurried  heart- 
beats, then  drew  away  with  a  deep  -  drawn 
sigh. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said.  "What 
must  you  think  of  me?" 

He  caught  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it  fast, 
lifting  it  to  his  lips  passionately.  Aged  death 
lay  within;  but  young  life  must  have  its  way 
without.  "Will  you  let  me  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  you?"  he  cried,  harshly.     "Margaret!" 

For  a  swift  instant  she  faced  him  there,  in  the 
warm  dusk,  beneath  the  gemmed  sky,  disclosing 
to  him  the  marvellous  dark  glory  of  her  eyes, 
every  fibre  of  her  quick  body  yielding ;  but  then, 

205 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

with  an  inarticulate  murmur,  she  released  her 
hand  and  started  away  from  him  in  tremulous 
alarm. 

"No,  no!"  she  panted.     "You  must  not — not 
— not  now!" 


XIX 

AN  hour  later  David  and  Joe  were  wandering 
i\  about  the  quiet,  shaded  streets  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  where  the  comfortable  homes  of  the 
town  were  grouped,  set  in  wide,  open  lawns,  with 
broad  spaces  between.  Most  of  the  houses  were 
darkened,  and  they  had  the  world  almost  to 
themselves.  Only  now  and  then  was  there  a  dis- 
turbing sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stone  flagging 
of  the  walks,  as  a  belated  pedestrian  hurried 
homeward.  Now  and  again  they  saw  a  motor- 
car passing  on  the  distant  lines,  its  yellow  lights 
glinting  through  the  trees,  its  humming  whine 
softened  and  remote.  To  the  eastward  the 
massed  lights  of  the  city  glimmered  in  close  array ; 
but  on  the  other  slope  of  the  hill  was  darkness, 
stretching  away  and  away  in  the  dim,  billowy 
roll  of  the  prairie,  that  was  lost  in  the  obscurity 
of  the  far  horizon.  They  were  well  pleased  by 
the  undisturbed  silence;  it  fell  in  perfectly  with 
their  mood,  long  indulged  at  home,  when  they 
had  been  used  to  walking  the  country  roads  at 
night,  talking  as  now  of  whatever  was  uppermost 
in  their  minds  or  quickest  in  their  hearts.  Night 
is  a  good  time  for  confidence ;  the  stars  and  trees 

207 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

invite  sincerity,  encourage  revelation  to  the  ut- 
most, making  the  honest  man  ashamed  of  any- 
thing less  than  full  disclosure.  Keller  was  re- 
marking upon  this  as  they  strolled  leisurely  along. 

"A  man  is  in  a  bad  way  when  he  loses  the  old 
habit  of  looking  at  the  stars,"  he  said.  "It's  a 
sign  of  emotional  decadence.  Men  in  town  don't 
do  it  very  much;  I  suppose  because  they  have 
so  many  brighter  lights  that  catch  the  eye  first. 
But  an  electric-lamp  is  a  very  poor  substitute  for 
a  star.  Men  used  to  find  the  stars  useful,  too — ■ 
a  chart  drawn  by  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  with 
never  an  error  in  it.  I  wonder  how  many  of 
the  people  of  our  generation  in  Omaha  could  find 
their  way  across  country  by  night  with  nothing 
to  guide  them  but  that  chart?  Not  many.  Most 
of  them  would  have  to  call  for  the  police,  or  else 
sit  down  and  wait  until  morning.  They  wouldn't 
be  comfortable  in  waiting,  either;  they'd  be  in  a 
cold  sweat  of  fear,  jumping  at  every  little  wild 
sound,  frightened  if  a  toad  hopped  in  the  grass 
beside  them.  The  very  thought  of  lying  down 
on  the  ground  and  going  to  sleep  would  terrify 
them.  I  know  the  feeling.  After  my  four  years 
in  Paris,  when  I  came  back  to  the  Elkhorn  again 
and  tried  to  take  up  the  old  life,  it  was  hard  work 
for  a  while.  It  was  months  before  I  could  walk 
out  at  night  and  face  the  stars  without  an  impulse 
of  crying,  '  Unclean !  unclean !'  like  a  leper.  I 
suppose  you  don't  know  that  feeling." 

"No,  not  yet,"  David  answered,  soberly.  He 
208 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

had  not  been  attending  closely  to  the  quiet 
speech  —  hearing  without  heeding.  There  was 
something  else  he  wanted  to  talk  about ;  in  trying 
to  brace  himself  for  it  he  had  suffered  Keller  to 
direct  speech  in  whatever  channel  he  chose,  con- 
tent to  halt  along  behind.  Keller  had  appeared 
not  to  notice  the  reticence  as  anything  unusual; 
they  had  always  been  used,  between  themselves, 
to  long  intervals  like  this,  when  neither  cared 
to  talk.  Keller  kept  on  and  on  with  his  easy 
monologue;  not  impassioned,  but  calm,  stopping 
frequently  to  take  account  of  the  beauties  of 
earth  or  sky  as  they  appeared  at  every  turn  of 
the  way.  His  pipe  burned  evenly  and  well — 
sure  index  to  his  tranquillity  of  spirit.  As  so 
often  happens  on  the  lower  levels  of  the  prairies, 
the  warmth  and  vitality  of  summer  lingered  in 
the  air,  reluctant  to  give  way;  so  far  as  signs 
went,  it  might  have  been  a  June  night;  its  soft 
touch  wooed  them  into  loitering,  caressed  them, 
comforted  them. 

They  came  to  a  stone  wall  under  the  trees,  en- 
closing a  smooth,  upward-sloping  grass-plot,  with 
a  big,  square- shouldered  house  standing  far  above, 
looming  in  a  black  mass  against  the  clear  dusk  of 
the  sky.  There  David  stopped,  seating  himself 
upon  the  broad  top  of  the  wall,  Keller  standing 
before  him. 

"Joe,"  David  broke  out,  abruptly,  his  smoth- 
ered wish  coming  all  at  once  to  a  head — "  tell  me, 
old  man,  what  did  you  think  of  her?" 

*4  209 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOM'ENT 

"What?"  Keller  asked,  perplexedly.  The  ques- 
tion was  a  sudden  obstruction  in  the  current  of  his 
thoughts.     "What  did  I  think  of  whom?" 

"  I  mean  Miss  Watson,"  David  blurted.  "  She's 
a  wonderful  woman,  Joe.  I  wondered  if  you'd 
see  it  as  I  wanted  you  to." 

"  Oh !"  Keller  said,  with  light  indifference.  "  No ; 
I  missed  that.  All  women  are  more  or  less  won- 
derful, at  one  time  or  another;  but  if  there's  any- 
thing really  extraordinary  in  her,  I  didn't  see  it." 

"Nothing  at  all?" 

"  Not  quite  that,  maybe.  She  has  rather  re- 
markable beauty,  of  a  certain  sort,  and  her  whole 
appearance  is  good;  but  she  didn't  make  any  par- 
ticular appeal  to  me." 

"  There  wasn't  time  enough,"  David  said,  eager- 
ly bent  upon  explaining  and  justifying  this  dis- 
turbing short-sightedness.  ' '  You  must  have  seen, 
if  you'd  had  a  little  more  time.  She  is  wonderful. 
I  hoped  you'd  see  it,  because  I  want  you  to  help 
me." 

"Help  you?"  Keller  echoed,  mystified.  Then: 
"What  do  you  mean?  What's  on  your  mind, 
Dave?     What  did  you  want  me  to  find  in  her?" 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you!  It's  no  use  to  try.  If 
you  didn't  see  it,  you  couldn't  believe  it.  Every- 
thing fine  and  good  that  could  possibly  belong  to 
a  woman." 

There  was  a  long,  awkward  interval.  "I  saw 
nothing  so  unusual,"  Keller  declared,  bluntly; 
"nothing   to   distinguish   her   from   many   other 

210 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

women  I've  known — beautiful  women,  fully  aware 
of  their  charms.  It  isn't  likely  that's  what  you 
mean." 

"No,  no,  no!"  David  protested.  "Not  that  at 
all.  She  isn't  that.  I  don't  see  how  you  can 
think  so.  It  must  be  that  you  weren't  looking 
for  anything  in  particular.  She's  wonderful,  I 
tell  you  —  wonderful,  wonderful  !  I've  never 
known  another  woman  like  her.  There  isn't  an- 
other." 

Keller  attended  quietly,  standing  erect,  only 
the  swelling  volume  of  his  pipe-smoke  under  his 
quickened  purring  betraying  more  than  a  passing 
interest.  Soon  he  drew  closer  and  sat  down  upon 
the  wall  at  David's  side. 

"Tell  me,  Dave,"  he  said,  again,  "what's  on 
your  mind?" 

David  hesitated,  struggling  against  a  strong 
sense  of  isolation  and  despair  of  being  understood. 
There  are  times  in  the  life  of  every  man  when  no 
friendship  is  quite  close  enough  to  fit  in  with  his 
desire  to  share  his  personal  burdens  with  a  sym- 
pathetic friend.  But  David's  need  mastered  this 
feeling. 

"  I  love  her,  Joe,  with  my  whole  heart,"  he  said, 
with  quick,  desperate  resolve. 

"  David!"  The  word  was  a  cry,  sharp,  pained, 
full  of  surprise,  doubt,  incredulity.  Keller  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  moved  for  a  few  steps  along  the 
walk,  then  turned  and  confronted  David,  coming 
slowly  back  to  him.     "  Oh,  boy,"  he  said,  huskily, 

211 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  are  you  say- 
ing?" 

"Just  the  plain  truth,"  David  returned.  It 
was  easy  now  for  resolution  to  persist.  "Does  it 
seem  so  hard  to  believe?  Is  it  so  very  terrible? 
I  sha'n't  tell  you  anything  but  the  truth;  and  I'll 
tell  you  all  of  it,  every  word,  if  you'll  let  me.  It 
can't  surprise  you  or  hurt  you  more  than  it  has  me. 
I've  been  fairly  stunned.  I  can't  think  straight. 
That's  why  I'm  asking  you  to  help." 

Keller's  pipe  fell  from  his  relaxed  grasp  to  the 
stones,  and  its  amber  stem  snapped  into  pieces. 
He  knelt,  groping  about  for  the  fragments,  then 
arose,  occupying  himself  for  a  moment  in  a  futile 
endeavor  to  fit  the  bits  together.  But  his  hands 
were  uncertain ;  the  fragments  escaped  one  by  one 
and  dropped  upon  the  walk.  He  gave  up  the  ef- 
fort, put  the  beloved  bowl  safely  away,  then  stood 
with  his  hands  plunged  deep  into  his  pockets. 

"  Well !"  he  said,  heavily.  He  appeared  like  one 
trying  to  rise  with  a  great  load  upon  him.  "I 
don't  know —  You've  knocked  me  all  into  a 
heap,  Dave.     I  see  stars.     It  seems  past  belief." 

"I  know,  I  know!"  David  cried,  with  straining 
intensity.  "  I  couldn't  have  believed  it  of  myself 
a  week  ago — not  even  yesterday.  It's  just  hap- 
pened to-day." 

"Oh!"  Keller  exclaimed,  relief  contending  with 
anxiety  in  the  tone.  "Is  that  all?  Why  do  you 
want  to  scare  a  fellow  with  such  a  vagary  ?  You're 
all  worked  up  and  excited  by  this  affair.     No  won- 

212 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

der  you're  a  little  crazy.     Come,  let's  go  home 
and  go  to  bed.     You'll  be  saner  in  the  morning." 

But  David  seized  the  man's  arm  in  a  fierce  grip, 
holding  him  fast.  "No,  no!"  he  cried.  "I  must 
talk  now,  Joe — right  here  and  now ;  and  you  must 
listen  and  help  me.  I  know  what  you  think ;  but 
I'm  surer  than  I  ever  was  in  my  life  before,  about 
anvthing.  I'm  perfectly  sure.  It  isn't  just  a 
thing  of  to-day.  I  feel  as  though  it  must  have 
begun  years  ago — -as  though  I'd  been  getting 
ready  for  this,  and  for  nothing  else,  all  my  life. 
Don't  you  believe  such  things  can  happen?" 

Keller  groaned  aloud  in  helpless  distress.  "  You 
boy!" 

David  broke  into  a  short,  rasping  laugh,  half 
exasperation  and  half  exultation.  "I  was  a  boy 
until  to-day,"  he  said.  "I've  been  like  a  five- 
year-old  playing  on  the  floor  with  a  lot  of  toys,  and 
not  even  dreaming  that  there  was  anything  else  in 
life.     But  I  know  better  now." 

They  were  seated  again  upon  the  top  of  the 
wall.  Keller  hooked  his  hands  about  his  bent 
knees  and  rocked  slowly  backward  and  forward, 
his  face  upturned  to  the  jewelled  sky,  deeply 
distraught.  By  -  and  -  by  he  said,  almost  curtly : 
"  What  do  you  want  of  me?  You  don't  want  me 
to  argue  you  out  of  it?" 

"  No !"  David  cried,  in  quick  impatience.  "  No, 
of  course  I  don't.     But  there's  Ruth." 

Keller's  indrawn  breath  hissed  through  his 
teeth.     "Ah,    yes!"   he    said,    with    a    palpable 

213 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

effort.     "To  be  sure— Ruth  !     Well,  what  about 
Ruth?" 

"Oh,"  David  complained,  "if  you  won't  try  to 
understand  I  can't  make  you.  You  know  well 
enough  what  the  trouble  is." 

"I  might  guess,"  Keller  returned;  "but  you 
said  you  were  going  to  tell  me  everything.  I  can't 
know  how  you  feel  until  you  tell  me." 

His  manner  was  controlled  now,  even  calm,  and 
it  brought  something  of  ease  to  David's  intense, 
chafing  thoughts. 

"Forgive  me,  Joe,"  he  said,  more  quietly.  "I 
am  excited.  It's  just  this.  I  loved  Ruth  when  I 
came  away  from  home,  with  the  best  love  I'd  ever 
felt  for  any  one.  That  last  night  I  all  but  told  her 
so.  She  knew  how  I  felt,  as  perfectly  as  though 
I'd  put  it  into  plain  words,  every  bit  of  it.  You 
know  how  it  had  been.  I'd  grown  up  with  her, 
and  knew  her  for  just  what  she  was  and  is,  one  of 
the  dearest  girls  in  the  world.  I  didn't  think  of 
anybody  but  her,  and  the  best  thing  I  dared  hope 
for  was  to  know  she  cared  for  me.  I  didn't  want 
anything  else.  I  was  going  to  live  for  her,  and  the 
thought  of  her  and  her  love  was  to  keep  me  for- 
ever. I  couldn't  have  believed  that  anything 
could  shake  that  feeling.  But  now  that  I've 
known  Margaret,  I  feel  as  though  it  had  been 
nothing  but  a  card-house,  and  it's  tumbled  down. 
I'm  not  belittling  Ruth — God  knows  I  couldn't 
do  that ! — but  Margaret — I  love  her,  and  I  know 
she  loves  me!" 

214 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Yes,"  Keller  said,  softly.  "Has  she  told  you 
so?" 

"No,"  David  answered,  readily.  "But  that 
doesn't  matter.  To-night,  when  we  were  out 
together,  I  asked  her  to  let  me  speak,  and  she 
wouldn't.  But  she  knows,  and  I  know!  I  said 
as  much  to  her  as  I  ever  did  to  Ruth.  There's 
no  difference." 

"  Wait  a  moment!"  Keller  interposed.  " There's 
a  mighty  difference  between  the  women."  He 
hesitated  long,  and  when  he  went  on  it  was  with 
manifest  labor,  every  word  escaping  hard.  "  It's 
a  thankless  task  you're  giving  me,  in  your  state 
of  mind.  You  aren't  likely  to  take  much  stock 
in  anything  I  say.  If  I  say  anything,  it  must  be 
just  what  I  think,  without  any  reservations  for 
mistaken  friendship's  sake." 

"  Yes,  yes!"  David  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "  I 
tell  you  I'm  not  a  child  now.  Go  on.  I  want 
plain  talk." 

But  Keller  took  a  long  time  for  meditating 
upon  the  matter.  "  I  shouldn't  have  thought  it 
possible  for  you  to  love  such  a  woman,"  he  said 
at  last.  "  Hers  is  about  the  last  of  all  types  that 
ought  to  attract  a  man  like  you.  It's  pretty 
nearly  grotesque.  But,  then,  the  whole  business 
of  sex  attraction  is  almost  terrible  in  the  blind 
way  it  works  and  the  dreadful  things  that  come 
out  of  it.  It  absolutely  defies  all  reason.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  such  men  as  you  —  simple- 
hearted,  clean,  honest  fellows — are  the  ones  who 

21^ 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

have  to  suffer  most.  Healthy,  red-blooded  chaps 
like  you  must  fall  in  love  with  somebody,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  It's  the  natural  outlet  for  your 
ecstatic  youth.  In  animals,  that  makes  good 
stock;  but  with  men  it  breeds  torment.  Unless 
youth  has  a  lot  of  iron  and  granite  in  its  will, 
nine  times  in  ten  it  will  yield  to  the  strong- 
est sex  attraction  and  ignore  everything  else; 
and  the  nearest  attraction  is  most  likely  to  be 
the  strongest.  Yes,  I  know,  I  know!"  he  said, 
sharply,  as  David  swung  out  his  arms  in  a  broad 
gesture  of  protest.  "That  sounds  to  you  like  an 
unfeeling  and  base  view  to  take  of  your  present 
passion.  But  you  said  I  was  to  talk  straight.  I 
say  it's  fairly  tragic,  the  ease  with  which  healthy 
young  people  mate.  That  sort  of  passion  is  very 
adaptable,  though.  If  a  warm-blooded  boy  can't 
get  his  first  love,  he  easily  finds  another,  and 
offers  her  a  heart  that  carries  no  visible  scars 
from  his  first  disappointment.  If  anything,  his 
frenzy  is  only  increased  by  waiting.  Oh,  I  don't 
decry  frenzy,  if  it's  governable.  I  like  passion — 
I  like  the  man  who  has  capacity  for  great  passion, 
if  he's  strong  enough  to  keep  it  steadfast.  If 
he  can't  do  that,  he'd  better  never  feel  a  stir 
of  it.  Steadfast  passion  makes  for  happiness 
and  security,  but  those  brief  flashes  only  dis- 
concert and  destroy.  Steadfastness  is  the  only 
motive  worth  while  in  a  man's  life,  in  any  of  its 
phases." 

"But,  Joe!"  David  cried,  quite  beside  himself 
216 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

with  repressed  feeling.  "  Must  I  be  faithful  to  a 
notion  after  I've  found  out  it's  a  mistake,  just 
because  I've  committed  myself  to  it?  Do  you 
think  that  sort  of  steadfastness  would  be  likely 
to  make  for  happiness?  Isn't  it  better  to  admit 
the  mistake  decently,  and  start  right?" 

"Not  quite  so  fast,"  Keller  said.  He  was 
almost  tranquil  now,  though  there  was  a  fine 
depth  and  breadth  of  earnestness  in  his  bearing. 
"  I  was  just  working  around  to  what  I  want  to 
say.  No,  I  shouldn't  want  a  man  to  stand  by  a 
discovered  mistake,  and  go  to  ruin  with  it.  That 
would  be  puerile.  But  what  strikes  me  as  very 
strange  is  the  buoyant  confidence  of  a  young 
fellow  who's  just  found  out  his  liability  to  mis- 
takes. He  seems  even  more  cocksure  than  ever 
of  his  security.  And  that  isn't  all.  The  trag- 
edy of  it  is  that  when  a  man  is  standing  within 
the  shadow  of  a  great  impending  mistake,  as  I 
think  you're  doing  now,  with  all  his  enthusiasm 
bent  on  it,  everything  outside  the  shadow  looks 
unreal  to  him.  His  eyes  get  used  to  the  dark, 
I  suppose,  and  the  light  hurts.  I  feel  perfectly 
sure,  Dave,  that  you're  near  making  an  awful 
blunder.  You're  so  desperately  young  and  un- 
tried. I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  that 
woman  without  seeming  heartless  and  cruel. 
You  won't  thank  me  for  it.  But  I'll  try  to  make 
you  see  that  I'm  intending  your  good.  I'll  tell 
you  something,  before  we're  through,  which  ought 
to  convince  you  of  that.     Even  if  you  can't  be- 

217 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

lieve  it,  I've  seen  women  like  Miss  Watson  be- 
fore—a hundred  of  them,  with  practically  noth- 
ing to  choose  among  the  lot.  She's  new  to 
you,  that's  all.  That's  her  charm  for  you.  I 
know  the  feeling.  You're  just  at  that  susceptible 
age  when  woman's  art  is  most  enticing,  and  when 
honest,  frank  simplicity  of  motive  and  behavior 
in  a  woman  is  very  apt  to  cheapen  her  for  you. 
That's  the  difference  between  Ruth  and  Miss 
Watson.  Now  just  wait!  It  has  to  be  said. 
There's  no  good  in  stopping  half-way.  It's  per- 
fectly plain  to  me  that  Miss  Watson  is  one  of 
those  women  with  whom  life  is  an  art,  its  least 
action  carefully  thought  out,  all  its  effects  well 
considered  beforehand.  She's  not  rare,  except 
perhaps  in  the  variety  of  her  resources  and  the 
degree  of  her  skill  in  using  them.  Whether  you 
believe  it  or  not,  I  tell  you  that  no  word  or  smile 
of  hers  ever  grows  naturally  out  of  a  frank,  un- 
studied impulse;  that's  next  to  impossible.  She 
isn't  wholly  to  blame  for  it ;  she's  a  social  product. 
But  that  doesn't  help  matters  a  bit.  The  worst 
thing  that  could  happen  to  a  man  of  your  sort 
would  be  to  marry  such  a  woman.  You  haven't 
anything  in  common,  and  never  could  have.  I 
don't  believe  she'd  ever  think  of  going  so  far  as 
to  marry  you,  or  any  other  man  in  your  condi- 
tion. I'm  not  considering  her  danger,  but  yours. 
She  isn't  in  any  danger.  She's  merely  interested 
in  you  because  you're  a  novelty.  That  isn't  the 
feeling   that   marriage   is  built   on.     She's   wise, 

218 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David.  Even  if  her  marrying  you  were  con- 
ceivable, she'd  make  you  unspeakably  wretched." 

"For  God's  sake,  Joe!"  David  groaned,  in 
abject  dismay.  "Oh,  don't  talk  like  that!  You 
don't  understand  at  all.  She's  not  such  a  woman 
as  that.  I  can't  bear  to  think  so.  Can't  you 
say  something  better  than  that?  I  couldn't 
have  believed  that  of  you.  You  don't  know  how 
it  hurts  me." 

"'Faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend,'"  Kel- 
ler returned,  with  gentle  insistence.  "I'm  your 
friend,  David.  I  don't  want  you  to  forget  that 
for  a  minute.  Do  you  think  I'm  hurting  you  for 
fun?  I'd  give  my  hand  to  see  you  happy,  if  that 
would  do  it.  That's  why  I'm  trying  to  get  you 
awake  to  your  folly.  It  is  folly,  and  nothing  else. 
You're  losing  Ruth,  a  perfect  angel  of  honesty 
and  goodness,  for  the  remote  chance  of  gaining  a 
woman  who  doesn't  know  the  meaning  of  honest 
love.     Why,  Ruth  is  so  much  above  her — " 

"Oh,  don't!"  David  beseeched.  "You're  only 
making  it  a  thousand  times  harder.  I  wish  I 
hadn't  spoken  to  you  at  all.  You're  not  helping 
me.  Do  you  think  I  haven't  considered  Ruth? 
I  have — I  have!  If  it  weren't  for  her  I  shouldn't 
hesitate  an  instant.  But  Ruth  trusts  me  to  love 
her,  after  what  I've  said ;  and  now  I  can't.  I  love 
Margaret  better  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
beside.  You  seem  to  leave  that  out  altogether. 
You  can't  have  known  anything  of  what  love 
really    is,    and    what    it    can    do.     That's    what 

219 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

makes  it  so  easy  for  you  to  talk.  Why,  love 
can  do  anything,  Joe,  if  it's  like  this." 

Keller  did  not  answer  at  once.  His  idle  rock- 
ing stopped  and  he  sat  quite  still,  staring  straight 
before  him.  The  silence  became  oppressive — a 
heavy  weight. 

"  Listen,  boy,"  he  said,  by-and-by.  "  I  must  tell 
you  something.  It  will  change  your  mind  about 
my  point  of  view.  Maybe  it  won't  help  you  much, 
right  away,  but  you  ought  to  know  it.  If  it  does 
nothing  else,  it  '11  show  you  that  I'm  not  so  un- 
feeling as  you  think."  His  voice  was  level  and 
perfectly  controlled  in  its  even  accents;  he  bent 
forward,  his  shoulders  drooping,  his  face  supported 
in  his  open  palms.  "  I  never  knew  before  just 
what  your  feeling  for  Ruth  was,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  have  wished  anything  better  for  you  than 
to  gain  her ;  but  I  didn't  know  you'd  really  thought 
of  it  until  the  very  day  you  left  home,  and  then 
it  wasn't  clear;  it  was  only  a  surmise.  On  that 
morning  I  drove  into  town  with  Ruth,  and  on  the 
way  I  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  She  said  no,  of 
course.  I'd  dreamed  of  it  for  a  long  time,  trying 
to  persuade  myself  that  I  was  fit  for  her.  There 
was  a  new  loveliness  upon  her  that  morning.  She 
seemed  perfectly  happy,  like  a  child,  and  there 
was  something  in  her  eyes  I'd  never  seen  before. 
I  was  foolish  enough  to  take  it  to  myself  and  let  it 
carry  me  away.  I  know  now  what  it  was.  It 
was  love  for  you,  David.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  risking.     I  never  saw  such  a  look  on  any 

220 


WITH     A      DESPAIRING     CRY      DAVID     THREW      HIMSELF     DOWN 
UPON    THE     WALL" 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

woman's  face.  It  was  just  divine.  I'd  give  my 
life  for  one  such  look  from  her,  knowing  it  was  for 
me.  Now  do  you  wonder  that  I've  been  talking 
plainly?" 

With  a  despairing  cry  David  threw  himself  down 
upon  the  wall,  covering  his  head  with  his  arms, 
his  strong  young  body  shaken  by  a  tumult  of  sobs, 
his  tears  coming  free  and  unchecked.  It  was  the 
best  relief  for  his  pent  feelings.  Keller  sat  by, 
waiting  for  the  boyish  grief  to  spend  itself,  not 
offering  to  interfere  with  its  course.  Over  the 
tangled  glitter  of  the  city's  lights  the  east  was 
softly  aglow  with  a  clear,  prophetic  radiance. 
The  man's  eyes  lingered  upon  the  tender  glory, 
watching  it  grow  and  grow,  until  out  of  the  silver 
deeps  rose  the  great  moon,  a  globe  of  warm  gold, 
suffusing  all  the  world,  touching  the  black  shad- 
ows and  spiriting  them  away.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night,  full  of  an  indescribable  tranquillity,  and  it 
brought  to  the  heart  of  the  man  a  mighty  sense  of 
reassurance,  in  which  all  lighter  disturbing  emo- 
tions were  sunk  and  lost.  He  was  willing  to  let 
that  peace  possess  him. 

David  sat  up,  his  face  showing  white  and  drawn 
in  the  moonlight,  his  moist  eyes  brilliant. 

"Dear  little  Ruth,"  he  said,  in  a  half-whisper. 
He  drew  close  to  Keller's  side,  laying  his  arm  over 
the  bent  shoulders.  "Joe,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I'm 
not  worthy  of  such  a  friend  as  you.  I'm  not  very 
much  of  a  man,  after  all,  I'm  afraid.  But  I  can't 
see  it  any  other  way;  to  save  my  soul  I  can't.     I 

221 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

love  Margaret  with  all  the  strength  I  have,  and  all 
the  rest  looks  poor  and  thin  beside  that.  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

"There's  the  impatient  boy  in  you,"  Keller  re- 
turned, soberly.  "  You'd  like  to  have  it  all  settled 
out  of  hand.  But  big  things  don't  happen  so, 
David.  I  don't  see  anything  for  it  but  to  wait. 
Isn't  a  right  solution  worth  waiting  for?  Come, 
we'll  go  home  now.  You  must  get  some  rest. 
You're  nearly  played  out,  and  no  wonder,  dear  old 
chap.  Rest  is  what  you  need  more  than  anything 
else  just  now." 

They  walked  slowly  homeward,  talking  of  other 
things  in  a  dull,  desultory  fashion,  making  no 
great  pretence  to  sustained  speech.  Once  in  his 
room,  David  undressed  and  threw  himself  upon 
his  bed  in  utter  weariness,  to  fall  asleep  without 
delay.  But  Keller  sat  over  by  the  window  facing 
the  east,  where  the  moonlight  covered  him  with 
its  soft  glory,  comforting  his  soul.  He  took  no 
account  of  time.  The  moon  moved  steadily  on  its 
stealthy  way  towards  the  zenith,  until  its  light  was 
no  more  than  a  thin  band  upon  the  window-ledge, 
and  the  low  rim  of  the  horizon  was  melting  with 
the  warmth  of  dawn.  He  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at 
last,  and  did  not  awaken  until  the  day's  work 
upon  the  street  below  was  well  begun.  David 
still  slumbered  heavily.  Keller  found  a  book  and 
sat  down  again,  waiting. 


XX 


THERE  were  bad  days  that  followed  for 
David ;  days  of  high  -  strung  expectancy  of 
something  to  happen,  he  knew  not  what,  that 
would  resolve  and  dispel  his  difficulties.  It  was 
a  primitive  sort  of  mood — that  of  most  men  when 
for  the  first  time  they  are  brought  to  face  the 
intricate  conditions  wherein  good  and  evil,  right 
and  wrong — the  items  in  the  great  profit-and-loss 
account  of  life— lie  awaiting  disentanglement,  and 
when  the  obligation  of  making  choice  of  one  or 
another  line  of  positive  conduct  becomes  impera- 
tive and  sharply  personal.  In  the  stress  of  strong 
action,  youth's  first  ideas  of  life's  values  are  sel- 
dom fixed  by  wise,  patient,  courageous  judgment; 
a  great  deal  is  always  expected  of  the  god  in  the 
machine — of  fortune,  fate,  or  destiny — in  bringing 
things  to  pass.  David  felt  himself  wholly  inca- 
pable of  seizing  hold  upon  the  broken  threads  of 
emotion  and  motive  and  knotting  them  up  of  his 
own  will ;  that,  he  was  vaguely  sure,  must  be  done 
by  a  power  other  than  his — a  power  acting  through 
him,  perhaps,  but  still  outside  himself. 

He  fell  in  quite  helplessly  with  Keller's  sugges- 
tion of  waiting,  though  it  was  not  a  patient  wait- 

223 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ing;  neither  was  there  a  willingness  to  abide  by 
the  result,  but  rather  an  impetuous,  overmaster- 
ing determination  that  things  must  turn  out  to  his 
liking,  yet  with  credit  to  his  troubled  conscience. 

Keller  did  not  remain  in  Omaha  longer  than 
was  necessary  for  the  completion  of  his  errand. 
After  two  or  three  days  he  returned  to  his  home 
on  the  Elkhorn.  David  was  not  altogether  sorry 
to  have  him  go.  Generous  as  their  confidence  had 
been,  now  that  he  was  practically  thrown  back 
upon  his  own  resources  David  felt  a  curious  un- 
easiness in  the  man's  quiet  presence,  as  though 
Keller's  understanding  of  all  that  was  in  his  heart, 
his  share  in  the  trial,  and  his  larger  power  of  self- 
restraint,  were  a  definite  if  unspoken  accusation 
against  the  sincerity  of  his  own  attitude.  He  was 
uneasy,  chafing,  hungry  for  consolation,  yet  re- 
luctant to  give  any  sign  of  his  need.  He  did  not 
take  counsel  again  with  Keller ;  neither  spoke  upon 
the  matter  so  near  the  hearts  of  both  until  the 
very  hour  of  Keller's  leave  -  taking,  when  they 
walked  the  station  platform  awaiting  the  signal 
of  the  train's  departure. 

"Tell  mother  I'm  all  right,  Joe,  will  you?"  Da- 
vid said  then.  "I'll  be  home  as  soon  as  I  can 
get  away  and  spend  a  couple  of  days  with  her. 
But  I  can't  go  this  Sunday,  on  Watson's  account. 
I  must  be  on  hand  if  he  needs  me.  He'll  be  out 
soon,  and  then  I'll  make  up  to  mother  for  every- 
thing.    You  tell  her  how  it  is,  Joe." 

"  All  right,  old  man,  I'll  tell  her,"  Keller  assured 
224 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

him.  Then,  with  his  foot  on  the  car-step,  he  gave 
David's  hand  a  warm,  lingering  pressure.  "  We're 
good  friends,  Dave,  always.  Don't  let  yourself 
forget  that,  if  you  ever  need  my  help  in  any  way. 
I'm  mighty  fond  of  you,  and  just  as  anxious  as  you 
are  to  have  this  thing  come  out  right;  and  I'm 
sure  it  will,  too,  if  you'll  only  keep  your  courage 
and  make  up  your  mind  to  take  the  right  way 
when  it's  clear  to  you.  The  saving  thing  about 
doubt  is  that  it  doesn't  often  last  long,  if  only  a 
man's  perfectly  honest  with  himself.  Good-bye. 
If  you  need  me,  say  so.     Good-bye!" 

David's  meetings  with  Margaret  were  very  fre- 
quent in  those  few  days.  It  could  not  have  been 
otherwise,  while  necessity  took  him  continually  to 
Watson's  rooms,  save  as  she  might  have  avoided 
him  deliberately.  But  there  was  no  avoidance; 
there  was  no  change  at  all  in  her  attitude  towards 
him.  On  the  day  following  their  visit  to  Mrs. 
Akin,  she  met  him  with  her  usual  serenity,  as 
though  nothing  had  occurred  to  cause  embarrass- 
ment or  to  vary  their  former  relations.  If  there 
was  any  constraint  it  was  all  on  David's  part,  but 
it  speedily  vanished  before  her  calm  self-posses- 
sion. He  had  not  been  able  to  forecast  her  be- 
havior or  his  own  after  the  events  of  that  night; 
he  was  glad  to  find  her  tacitly  ignoring  them  and 
abating  nothing  of  her  frankness,  giving  no  sign 
that  she  desired  anything  but  a  continuance  of 
their  old  cordial  friendship,  allowing  the  present 
to  suffice  for  just  now  and  the  future  to  care  for 
is  225 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

itself.  He  welcomed  the  sense  of  freedom  which 
this  gave  him — not  that  he  doubted  in  the  least, 
but  only  that  he  would  be  doubly  sure. 

And  as  he  encountered  her  from  day  to  day, 
entering  each  time  into  some  fresh  realization  and 
enjoyment  of  her  great  beauty,  getting  a  new 
understanding  of  her  subtler  charm  and  power, 
and  not  denying  himself  the  right  to  see  and  feel 
to  the  utmost,  he  found  that  what  might  have 
been  at  first  only  an  emotional  impulse  was  be- 
coming an  absolute  conviction.  He  loved  her. 
No  lesser  word  would  take  the  place  of  "  love"  in 
his  thoughts;  and  he  determined  that  he  would 
one  day  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

And  Ruth?  He  resolved  that  he  would  not 
keep  cowardly  silence  with  Ruth,  though  he 
knew  not  what  he  could  say  to  her.  Their  un- 
derstanding had  been  definite  enough  in  spirit, 
though  wholly  intangible  in  terms;  not  one  ex- 
plicit word  of  pledge  had  passed  between  them 
to  afford  him  a  clear  right  to  go  to  her  now  with 
explanation.  But  it  must  come  somehow;  his 
honest  love  of  justice,  no  less  than  his  great  regard 
for  her,  would  discover  a  way  to  make  all  plain. 
Though  his  distress  recurred  again  and  again,  he 
was  always  able  to  dismiss  it  with  that  assurance ; 
and  in  the  intervals  there  was  the  living,  com- 
forting certainty  of  his  love  for  Margaret — a  cer- 
tainty that  would  not  keep  company  with  doubt. 

New  thoughts  came  to  him  —  thoughts  of  a 
larger  future  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of.     He 

226 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

must  build  in  a  way  worthy  of  Margaret,  and 
so  show  himself  worthy  of  her.  It  had  been  all 
so  different  with  Ruth;  she  had  seemed  to  make 
no  demand  upon  him  to  do  great  things  or  to  be 
other  than  what  he  was.  He  would  have  been 
to  her  only  David,  her  husband;  she  would  have 
been  to  him  only  Ruth,  his  wife — a  sweet  com- 
panion, a  comfort,  even  a  joy,  but  surely  not  an 
inspiration  to  the  splendid  achievements  possible 
to  manhood.  She  would  have  been  content  had 
he  crowned  her  with  field  flowers ;  but  he  must 
win  jewels  for  Margaret. 

Before  the  end  of  a  week  Watson  was  around 
again,  weak  of  body,  peevishly  irascible  of  tem- 
per, but  bent  upon  taking  up  his  work.  On 
the  morning  of  his  return  to  his  desk  his 
pleasure  was  noticeable  despite  his  nervous  irri- 
tability. 

"  I  can't  stand  it,  Boughton,  to  be  obliged  to 
lie  quiet  in  a  dark  room  and  meditate,"  he  de- 
clared. "  That  self-examination  business  is  out 
of  my  line.  I  hate  myself  too  much,  to  begin 
with.  I  want  to  keep  busy  on  something  else 
and  forget  myself.  I've  heard  people  say  they 
were  at  their  spiritual  best  in  those  contemplative 
hours  alone ;  but  they're  different  from  me.  The 
thoughts  I  have  at  such  times  are  like  toads  and 
spiders — I'd  rather  have  'em  stay  in  their  holes. 
I  nearly  went  crazy  this  week,  lying  there  and  lift- 
ing the  closed  hatchways  of  my  soul  and  letting 
out  the  ugly  brood  to  hop  and  crawl  over  my  bed. 

227 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

No,  sir!     The  only  time  when  I  feel  safe  is  when 
I'm  in  action — busy,  busy,  busy!" 

He  attacked  his  work  with  a  desperate,  grim 
energy ;  but  his  strength  was  not  equal  to  sustain- 
ed application.  After  an  hour's  trial  he  gave  it 
up  with  an  angry  exclamation  of  disgust,  throw- 
ing his  book  into  a  corner. 

"It  makes  me  sick!  I'm  getting  old  and 
played  out  and  no  account.  Pick  up  that  book, 
will  you,  and  put  it  away." 

He  lounged  back  in  his  chair,  his  huge  figure 
limply  relaxed,  his  eyes  aglow  with  a  savage  re- 
vulsion against  his  weakness.  He  took  up  his 
ivory  paper-cutter  and  bent  it  between  his  fingers 
until  it  snapped  in  two,  then  dropped  the  pieces 
deliberately  into  the  waste-basket  and  delivered  a 
sharp  kick,  sending  the  basket  flying  across  the 
room,  scattering  its  rubbish  over  the  floor. 

"I'm  in  a  sweet  frame  of  mind  for  a  grown 
man,"  he  roared.  "  I  wish  there  was  somebody 
to  give  me  a  sound  licking  and  straighten  me 
out.     Why  don't  you  do  it?" 

But  David  was  pleased  to  find  him  in  this 
humor.  He  wanted  to  talk,  and  wanted  the  talk 
to  be  plain,  free  of  all  mistaken  mildness  or  con- 
siderate refinements  of  expression. 

"Mr.  Watson,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "I've  been 
thinking  about  the  future  —  my  own  future,  I 
mean — trying  to  see  into  it  a  little;  but  it  isn't 
clear.  I've  been  wondering  if  you  can't  help 
me  some." 

228 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

Watson's  restless  fidgeting  ceased  as  he  scowled 
into  the  young  face. 

"What's  worrying  you?"  he  asked,  dully. 
"Future?  What  do  you  care  about  the  future? 
You'd  better  let  it  alone.  I  never  knew  any 
good  to  come  of  meddling  with  it." 

"  But  it's  time  I'm  making  up  my  mind  what 
I'm  going  to  do  with  myself,"  David  returned, 
earnestly.  "  I  must  begin  to  think  about  a  de- 
fined career.     I'm  getting  past  the  trifling  age." 

Watson's  scowl  persisted.  "  Fudge!"  he  snort- 
ed. "  A  career !  What's  the  good  of  that  ?  Why, 
look  at  me!  I  ought  to  be  a  warning  to  you  not 
to  get  that  notion  stuck  in  your  crop.  I've  had 
a  career.  When  I  was  your  age  I  set  out  to  be 
somebody  and  amount  to  something,  and  I  made 
everything  serve  that  end.  Now  look  at  me !  My 
life's  gone,  except  for  a  few  gray  years  that  I'd 
be  glad  to  chuck  after  the  rest,  and  I  haven't 
got  one  decent  thing  to  show  for  it.  I  haven't 
shirked,  nor  I  haven't  played  the  coward  or  the 
scoundrel;  I've  worked  hard  and  fought  des- 
perately to  win  something  that  I  thought  would 
be  worth  while;  yet  all  I've  got  is  a  sense  of 
failure  and  disgust  with  the  whole  business — just 
a  sick  taste  in  my  mouth.  Is  that  what  you 
want?  I'll  lay  odds  of  a  hundred  to  one  that's 
what  you'll  get,  if  you  keep  on  as  you're  begin- 
ning." 

He  paused,  amusing  himself  for  a  time  by 
swinging  around  in  his  chair,  making  the  springs 

229 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

creak  beneath  his  weight,  his  impatience  gather- 
ing an  added  vehemence  as  the  noise  rasped  his 
nerves. 

"You  were  a  fool  to  leave  home  in  the  first 
place,  with  the  thought  of  bettering  yourself," 
he  said,  harshly.  "If  you'll  listen  to  me,  you'll 
go  back  there  and  stay.  That's  where  you  be- 
long." 

"But,  Mr.  Watson — "  David  began,  in  remon- 
strance.    But  Watson  cut  him  short. 

"There's  no  'but'  about  it.  You  invite  me  to 
say  it  when  you  begin  talking  such  twaddle. 
You're  a  fool,  a  whole  fool,  and  nothing  but  a 
fool.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  think.  You'd  like 
to  remind  me  of  this  Senate  business,  as  a  worthy 
end  to  a  hard  life,  and  all  that.  Rot !  As  if  that 
counted!  I'm  going  to  the  Senate,  but  it's  only 
a  drowning  man's  last  hopeless  effort  to  save 
himself.  I  know  in  advance  what  it  '11  cost  me. 
I'll  suffer  agony  and  get  nothing  but  bitterness 
and  an  increased  distrust.  There  isn't  one  of 
these  fawning  political  friends  of  mine  that 
wouldn't  betray  and  sell  me  out  in  a  minute  if 
he  could  do  it  at  a  profit.  That  isn't  what  I've 
been  hunting  for  in  life.  Would  you  be  willing 
to  trade  places  with  me  and  take  my  cards  and 
play  them  out  and  abide  by  the  result?  Do 
you  think  I  wouldn't  swap?  I'd  give  the  whole 
six  years,  and  all  their  glory  and  reward,  for  just 
one  single  day  of  the  sort  of  life  that  you're  so 
anxious  to  quit.     You  don't  know  what  you're 

230 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

giving  up — freedom,  the  work  most  worthy  of  a 
man,  the  certainty  of  earned  rewards,  and  the 
chance  of  coming  to  the  end  of  a  decent,  happy 
life  in  self-respecting  content.  In  God's  name, 
Boughton,  what  more  than  that  do  you  want? 
I  know  how  you  feel.  I  felt  the  same  way  once. 
I  chose  the  part  you're  choosing,  and  I've  seen  it 
through,  the  best  I  knew  how,  and  I  tell  you 
there's  no  good  in  it.  How  can  there  be?  It's 
artificial  and  vain  and  stupidly  false  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Can't  you  see  the  harm  it's 
done  right  here  in  Nebraska?  What's  the  good 
in  this  State  of  a  big,  overgrown  scheme  of 
politics  and  laws?  All  it  does  is  to  fatten  a  lot 
of  parasitic  politicians  and  lawyers.  We'd  be  a 
lot  better  off  here  on  the  prairies  if  we  had  no 
laws  but  the  Ten  Commandments,  and  if  the 
whole  gang  of  lawyers  and  law-makers  were  com- 
pelled to  go  to  work  and  earn  their  living  like 
men.  And  look  at  Omaha!  Could  anything  be 
more  artificial  or  more  abjectly  silly  than  to  set 
about  building  a  metropolitan  city  in  the  mid- 
dle of  these  farms  ?  A  hundred  thousand  people, 
where  thirty  thousand  would  be  more  than  enough 
for  all  the  real  work  there  is  to  do  now.  A 
market-place — that's  all  the  farmers  need  here 
right  now.  They're  supporting  seventy  thou- 
sand useless  people  just  for  the  sake  of  being  in 
the  fashion  and  having  a  metropolis.  And  now 
you  want  to  join  the  seventy  thousand  and  have 
what  you  call  a  'career,'  and  make  the  people 

231 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

pay  for  it.  I'd  like  to  know  what  right  you  have 
to  ask  them  to  do  it.  It's  a  mighty  narrow, 
selfish  desire;  it  isn't  even  respectable,  except 
by  a  powerful  stretching  of  some  of  the  good 
old  standards  of  behavior.  A  man  ought  to  be 
dead  sure  of  his  call  before  he  essays  that  role. 
You  don't  seem  to  be  sure.  If  you  were  you 
wouldn't  be  coming  to  me  for  counsel." 

David  had  sat  quite  helpless  under  the  rushing 
fall  of  words.  He  could  only  wait  until  Watson's 
strange  fury  had  spent  itself.  Curiously  enough 
he  felt  no  resentment;  his  mind  seemed  suddenly 
to  lack  even  enough  of  elasticity  to  be  resentful. 

"  But  I  am  sure,"  he  declared,  after  a  moment. 
"You  misjudge  me  altogether.  There's  other 
work  in  the  world  besides  the  sort  I've  known — 
good  work,  too,  that  a  man  needn't  be  ashamed 
of,  and  that's  what  I  want  to  have  a  hand  in.  I'm 
no  drone,  and  don't  mean  to  be.  I  want  to  be  of 
some  real  use.  I  want  a  bigger  usefulness  than  I 
had  at  home.  That's  perfectly  respectable,  isn't 
it?" 

"  A  bigger  usefulness?"  Watson  echoed.  "  Such 
as  what?  If  a  man's  going  to  be  useful  he  must 
minister  to  some  real  need  of  his  fellows.  That's 
the  only  way.  What's  your  idea?  To  feed  the 
hungry?  How  can  you  do  that  any  better  than 
by  raising  wheat — making  the  earth  fruitful  ?  Or 
to  reform  the  world's  morals?  How  can  you  do 
that  any  better  than  by  setting  a  plain,  easy  ex- 
ample of  manly  righteousness?     We've  already 

232 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

got  too  far  away  from  first  principles — from  the 
sound  morality  of  the  soil ;  we're  breaking  all  our 
contacts  with  nature  as  fast  as  we  can,  when  we 
ought  to  know  that  nature  is  the  only  possible 
source  of  health.  The  world's  morals  won't  be 
reformed  until  we  repair  the  breaks.  We've  got 
to  set  our  feet  on  the  soil  again.  You  had  no 
business  to  leave  it  for  a  share  in  this  big,  false, 
crazy  scheme  of  modern  life.  I  left  it  and  I'm 
paying  the  price,  and  trying  not  to  whine  because 
I'm  finding  the  price  too  high.  It's  too  late  for 
me  to  turn  back  now;  but  I'll  call  it  square  if  I 
can  prevent  your  following  after  me.  Haven't 
you  seen  enough?  Do  you  suppose  it  '11  be  a  joy 
to  me  to  win  out  in  the  legislature  and  take  my 
senatorship,  with  that  good  old  man's  blood  in  my 
memory?  And  that's  just  one  little  part  of  what 
these  days  are  bringing  me.  The  best  thing  you 
can  possibly  do,  while  your  soul's  still  fresh,  is  to 
go  back  home  and  stay  there,  and  do  your  work 
and  live  your  life  and  be  sure  of  yourself.  That's 
too  much  to  surrender  for  a  breathless  chase  after 
a  flying  shadow.  For  Heaven's  sake,  boy,  give  it 
up  and  go  back!" 

But  David  shook  his  head,  his  lips  set,  his  eyes 
unyielding. 

"No.  I  can't  see  it  that  way  at  all,"  he  said, 
stoutly.  "  I  don't  believe  it's  inevitable  that  I 
must  suffer  your  disappointment,  just  because  I 
want  to  cut  loose  from  the  farm  and  do  work  that 
I  think  I'm  better  fitted  for." 

233 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Well,  what's  that?"  Watson  cut  in.  "What 
is  it  you  want  to  do?" 

David  flushed  under  the  direct  question. 
"That's  where  I  want  your  help,"  he  confessed, 
frankly.  "I'm  not  sure  of  the  means,  but  I  want 
to  win  a  place  in  life  where  I  can  use  my  powers 
and  have  standing  and  recognition.  Maybe  I'm 
not  such  a  hopeless  fool  as  you  think.  I've  learn- 
ed honesty,  for  one  thing,  and  I  think  I  know  how 
to  apply  it  in  other  ways  besides  following  the 
plough.  I  want  to  be  more  with  men  than  I 
could  be  out  there  in  the  fields ;  I  want  to  mix  with 
them  and  influence  them  and  have  a  hand  in  af- 
fairs and  make  a  reputation  for  myself  by-and- 
by — not  just  a  name,  but  a  good  reputation.  That 
isn't  just  vanity.  I'm  not  vain.  For  one  thing, 
I  want  my  mother  to  know  she  has  a  son  who  can 
do  the  things  other  men  are  doing  in  the  world. 
And  besides,"  he  continued,  with  brave  deter- 
mination, "I'll  have  a  wife  some  day,  most  likely, 
and  I  want  to  make  a  place  for  her." 

"  Ah!"  Watson  breathed  with  a  sharp  wince  of 
pain.  "  A  wife,  eh?  That's  the  idea,  is  it?  Well, 
that — I  reckon  that  puts  me  out  of  the  discussion. 
I  can't  argue  that  point  with  you." 

"Oh!"  David  said,  in  contrition.  "I  didn't 
think.    Forgive  me.    I'm  sorry  if  I've  hurt  you." 

"All  right,"  Watson  returned,  with  a  gesture  of 
dismissal.  "Never  mind.  I  wish  you  joy,  on 
general  principles,  and  we'll  let  it  go  at  that."  He 
gave  himself  up  to  silence  for  a  time,  his  chin  sunk 

234 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

upon  his  breast,  his  heavy  features  twitching ;  then 
a  sigh  swelled  his  broad  chest.  "All  right,"  he 
repeated.  "I'll  take  it  for  granted  you  know 
your  own  mind,  in  a  general  way.  I  understand 
pretty  well,  I  reckon.  If  you're  really  bent  on  it, 
you'd  better  see  a  little  of  how  the  game's  played 
before  you  put  up  your  own  chips.  You  ought  to 
meet  some  different  kinds  of  men  and  get  on  to 
their  pretty  little  ways.  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do — I'll  take  you  to  Washington  as  my  secretary, 
if  you  like.  That  '11  be  good  training,  and  maybe 
open  the  way  to  something  you  want.  How  does 
that  suit  you?" 

David  glowed  with  the  warmth  of  quick  enthu- 
siasm, and  his  hand  was  outstretched  in  a  grati- 
tude he  could  not  put  into  words.  Watson  took 
the  offered  hand  and  pressed  it,  while  upon  his 
face  there  gathered  an  expression  of  unwonted 
gentleness. 

"  Yes,  you're  a  fool,"  he  insisted.  "  But  you're 
of  an  interesting  kind.  That's  something  in  your 
favor." 

True  to  his  promise  to  Keller,  David  planned  to 
spend  the  following  Saturday  and  Sunday  at 
home.  He  hoped  that  a  couple  of  quiet  days  with 
his  mother  would  abate  his  agitation  somewhat 
and  enable  him  to  take  a  calmer  view  of  the  mat- 
ters that  were  pressing  upon  him  for  decision.  He 
did  not  mean  to  take  her  wholly  into  his  confi- 
dence just  yet;  he  would  not  tell  her  of  Margaret; 
that  would  only  cause  her  distress,  while  effecting 

235 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

nothing — there  was  nothing  but  uncertainty  to 
lay  before  her.  After  the  constant  manner  of 
self-reliant  youth,  he  did  not  want  to  seek  advice 
which  might  go  contrary  to  his  desires,  unformed 
as  those  desires  were;  he  wished  first  to  get  his 
plan  of  conduct  clearly  outlined,  and  then  to 
have  it  approved.  The  most  that  he  wanted 
now  was  a  renewed  assurance  of  his  mother's 
faith  in  him. 

He  hoped,  too,  that  there  would  be  a  chance  to 
talk  with  Ruth,  and  that  a  way  would  open  for 
letting  her  understand  what  was  in  his  mind.  It 
must  come  some  time,  and  only  when  it  was  finally 
accomplished  could  he  settle  again  to  his  work 
with  real  zest.  But  on  Friday  a  letter  came  to 
him  from  Ruth,  bringing  him  a  half-conscious  re- 
lief. Its  tone  was  that  of  all  the  letters  that  had 
passed  between  them — a  tone  of  generous  warmth 
of  understanding,  with  love  taken  for  granted, 
running  elusively  between  the  lines,  though  its 
definite  expression  seemed  by  common  consent  to 
be  held  in  abeyance  against  a  possible  day  to 
come.     The  letter  ran: 

"  Dear  David, — Good-bye !  There,  doesn't  that  make 
you  feel  bad?  Well,  you  deserve  to  suffer,  you've  been 
so  dreadfully  remiss  yourself.  It's  three  weeks,  almost, 
since  you've  been  here.  And  now  you  aren't  going  to 
see  me  for  a  long  time — oh,  ever  and  ever  so  long! 
Not  until  after  New  Year's!  I'm  going  away  to-night, 
back  to  my  uncle's  in  Illinois,  to  be  gone  a  whole  month. 
And  why,  do  you  think?  Because  the  doctor  says  I 
must.     He  says  I'm  tired  and  need  a  change.     Isn't 

236 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that  a  good  joke — big,  healthy,  busy  Me  ordered  to  take 
a  rest,  just  like  a  common,  lazy,  rich  person!  But  I'm 
going.  It  has  been  a  hard  year;  harder  than  I  realized 
until  the  work  was  all  done  and  out  of  the  way,  and  I 
had  time  to  stop  and  think.  I've  had  headaches  and 
nerves  for  two  weeks.  Mother's  going,  too,  and  we're 
going  to  leave  the  place  with  a  housekeeper.  There, 
now,  don't  cry.  I'll  be  back  after  a  while,  and  in  the 
mean  time  you  can  write  to  me,  if  you  want  to.  Now 
here's  the  wagon  for  our  trunks.     Good-bye! 

"Ruth. 

"P.S. — Yes,  there  must  be  a  'P.S.,'of  course.  This 
is  honest — real  honest-true:  I'm  very  sorry  not  to  have 
a  chance  to  see  you  and  tell  you  how  fine  you  are.  Just 
to  read  about  any  man  doing  such  a  thing  would  have 
been  good  enough;  but  then  to  know  that  it  was  really 
and  truly  you,  David!  Now  you'll  just  have  to  guess 
at  the  rest  of  what  I'd  like  to  say,  for  I'm  not  going  to 
say  it — not  now.  R." 

This  message  seemed  almost  like  a  reprieve.  It 
was  not  a  pleasant  task  he  must  perform ;  not  one 
to  be  coveted  and  hastened. 

Free  of  that  embarrassment,  his  visit  home  was 
happy  and  inspiriting.  He  was  forced  to  take  a 
new  role  among  the  people  of  the  quiet  neighbor- 
hood— the  role  of  hero,  because  of  his  performance 
on  that  eventful  night.  With  unfeigned  modesty 
he  sought  to  avert  their  awkward  adulation ;  but 
it  left  a  grateful  flavor,  nevertheless,  and  this  was 
heightened  when  he  saw  his  mother's  frank,  gen- 
uine pride  in  him — -a  pride  in  which  Uncle  Billy 
was  a  close  sharer,  though  he  affected  to  rid- 
icule. 

237 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  'Mighty!"  he  scoffed.  "I  reckon  now  you'll 
be  quittin'  the  law,  won't  you,  an'  goin'  onto  the 
stage?  That's  where  all  these  here  prize-fighters 
wind  up.  We'll  be  seein'  your  picture  on  the 
play-bills,  an'  you'll  be  comin'  out  on  the  plat- 
form in  pink  tights  an'  showin'  'em  how  you 
pitched  in  an'  licked  ten  thousand  men  all  to 
oncet,  with  one  eye  tied  behind  you.  Our  little 
Dave!" 

After  some  futile  remonstrance,  David  submit- 
ted and  let  them  say  what  they  liked,  taking  it 
all  in  good  part,  knowing  so  well  what  it  meant. 
They  were  pleasant  days. 

His  long-delayed  talk  with  his  mother  was  all 
that  could  have  been  desired.  They  sat  together 
in  the  quiet  of  her  room,  after  the  late  Sunday 
dinner,  until  the  afternoon  hours  slipped  into 
evening  dusk,  he  rehearsing  with  irrepressible  en- 
thusiasm the  story  of  his  little  achievements  and 
bolder  plans,  holding  back  only  one  thing — the 
thing  which,  above  all  others,  was  nearest  and 
greatest  in  interest,  she  placidly  listening,  putting 
in  a  gentle  word  now  and  then,  but  for  the  most 
part  content  with  the  mere  fact  of  her  mother- 
hood and  the  present  possession  of  a  strong,  good 
son.  That  was  enough  for  her;  better  than  any 
of  the  things  upon  which  he  dwelt  so  insistently. 
Out  of  her  very  silence  he  gained  a  new  strength, 
a  certainty  that  he  would  be  equal  to  whatever 
was  in  store. 

"Washington  seems  like  it's  a  long  ways  off," 
238 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

she  said,  "but  I  don't  want  you  to  be  afraid  I'm 
going  to  mind  that  too  much.  I'll  miss  you,  of 
course,  but  I'll  know  you're  there;  and,  then, 
thinking  about  those  you  love  always  somehow 
makes  them  seem  close.  It's  all  right,  son,  and 
I'll  be  perfectly  happy." 

Wanting  the  stimulus  of  his  campaign,  Watson 
must  have  succumbed  to  his  physical  ailment, 
which  weighed  heavily  upon  him ;  but  the  con- 
sciousness of  facing  a  large  task  sustained  him 
through  trying,  weary  days.  His  health  was  sadly 
broken,  but  his  will  was  that  of  a  born  fighter  and 
would  not  yield.  Between  the  innate  love  of  con- 
flict and  his  acquired  distrust  of  the  men  who  were 
abetting  him,  he  would  delegate  nothing  to  an- 
other which  he  could  do  for  himself.  Day  after 
day  he  was  at  his  desk,  indefatigable,  indomitable, 
meeting  riff-raff  and  gentry  turn  about  with  a 
marvellous  adroitness  and  power  of  adaptability, 
bending  them  to  his  purpose,  and,  like  every  true 
fighter,  sustained  less  by  the  thought  of  approach- 
ing victory  than  by  the  lurking  possibility  of 
defeat.  So  long  as  there  was  a  remote  chance 
of  defeat  he  took  a  savage  delight  in  the  strug- 
gle, but  as  the  day  approached  for  the  assem- 
bling of  the  legislature  he  became  curiously  apa- 
thetic. 

"It's  too  easy,"  he  complained.  "It's  prac- 
tically all  over  now,  except  the  formal  vote,  and  I 
haven't  had  half  the  fun  I've  paid  for.  There 
isn't  a  man  in  the  contest  with  any  real  political 

239 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

genius.  They're  a  lot  of  dubs.  I  know  what  the 
matter  is — I  miss  Bronson.  I  wish  to  Heaven  he 
wasn't  in  jail.  He's  an  infamous  scoundrel  and 
all  that,  but  he  certainly  does  play  a  stiff  hand  in 
politics,  and  that's  the  sort  of  fellow  I  like  to  have 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  These  other  chaps 
know  enough,  but  they  lack  nerve,  and  mere  skill 
is  no  good  in  anything  unless  a  man  has  the  nerve 
to  back  it  up.  If  murder  was  a  bailable  offence, 
I'd  be  glad  to  go  on  Bronson' s  bond  just  to  get 
him  out  and  have  a  good,  swift  scrap  on  my  hands. 
As  it  is,  I  might  as  well  be  fighting  a  ladies'  aid 
society." 

So  great  was  his  assurance  and  so  correspond- 
ingly small  his  interest  that  he  even  refrained  al- 
together from  attending  upon  the  legislature. 
The  details  of  organization  aroused  in  him  only 
a  passive  sort  of  curiosity,  and  upon  the  day  fixed 
for  the  first  ballot  in  the  matter  of  the  senatorship 
he  was  at  his  desk  as  usual,  busy  over  a  mass  of 
papers  in  a  new  case. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  a  telegram  was 
brought  to  him.  He  read  it  with  no  show  of  feel- 
ing beyond  a  short,  mirthless  laugh,  then  gave  it 
to  David. 

"Congratulations,"  it  said,  succinctly.  "We 
win  with  twenty- two  votes  to  burn." 

David's  blood  was  less  cool ;  he  felt  it  rise  to  his 
cheeks  and  throb  in  his  temples,  and  his  laugh 
held  all  that  Watson's  had  lacked. 

"  Well !"  he  said,  heartily,  his  strong  hand  grasp- 
240 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ing  Watson's  shoulder.  "  How  do  you  feel  now, 
Senator?  Won't  you  let  me  congratulate  you, 
too?  Now,  don't  you  really  think  that's  worth 
winning?" 

Watson  turned  again  to  his  desk,  taking  up  the 
document  he  had  been  reading,  slowly  smoothing 
out  the  creases  in  the  stiff  paper. 

"Oh,  I  guess  so — maybe,"  he  said.  "That  re- 
mains to  be  seen."  He  laid  the  paper  down  again, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  raising  his  eyes  to 
David's.  "  Yes ;  on  the  whole,  I'm  glad  of  it.  It's 
the  first  thing  I've  really  wanted  in  years  that 
wasn't  clear  out  of  my  reach.  It  '11  give  me  some 
hard  work  to  do,  anyway,  and  that's  what  I  want. 
Besides,  I'm  really  glad  on  your  account.  I've 
been  thinking  a  lot  about  you,  Boughton,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  this  would  be  good  for  you. 
You'll  make  a  lot  of  friends  among  some  big  men 
— good,  strong,  human  people  —  and,  whatever 
comes  afterwards,  such  friends  won't  be  amiss. 
If  you  like,  you  can  just  consider  it  settled  that 
you're  going  with  me." 

A  messenger  boy  entered,  laying  another  tele- 
gram before  Watson,  who  tore  open  the  envelope 
and  glanced  hastily  at  the  yellow  sheet,  then  read 
it  over  again  slowly,  and  as  though  it  required  a 
distinct  effort,  the  color  fading  from  his  face,  his 
big  hand  shaking. 

"Oh,  good  God,  Boughton!"   he  cried.      "This 
isn't  for  me.     I  didn't  look.     It's  for  you.     Who 
is  Dan?     Isn't  he  your  brother?" 
16  241 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  David's 
into  a  firm  clasp,  holding  it  fast  while  David  bent 
over  his  shoulder  to  read : 

"Dan  kicked  by  horse.  Badly  hurt.  Can  live  but 
few  hours.  Joseph  S.  Keller." 


XXI 

ALTHOUGH  the  year  had  clung  tenaciously 
A  to  the  milder  mood  of  autumn,  prolonging 
it  far  beyond  lawful  seasonal  bounds,  as  a  man 
indulges  himself  in  postponing  an  unpleasant 
duty,  it  had  become  resolved  at  last,  and  in  the 
true  prairie  fashion  had  plunged  headlong,  though 
with  a  gasp  and  a  shudder,  into  the  cold  depths 
of  midwinter.  It  was  a  winter  landscape  through 
which  David's  train  sped  westward  towards  Wa- 
terloo in  the  gray  end  of  the  afternoon.  Snow 
had  begun  to  fall  an  hour  before,  driven  by  a 
rising  wind;  already  the  lower  hollows  were 
choked  with  it;  the  dead  weed-clusters  standing 
along  the  railway  were  gathering  little  mounds 
of  white  about  their  roots ;  and  the  uneven  surfaces 
of  the  ploughed  fields  caught  at  their  share,  hid- 
ing it  jealously  in  chinks  and  crannies  among  the 
clods — thrifty  accumulations  of  treasure  against 
the  needs  of  later  time.  Over  all  a  winter  sky 
lowered  close. 

David's  thoughts  were  in  keeping  with  the 
prospect  before  his  eyes — sombre,  chilled,  stiffen- 
ed. They  were  without  order;  he  had  lost  the 
will  to  arrange  them  and  keep  them  in  orderly 

243 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

line;  he  had  lost  even  the  power  to  suffer  their 
pain — for  anguish  bears  always  its  own  anodyne, 
blunting  the  susceptibility  of  the  senses  till  they 
can  endure.  David  was  not  anguished.  A  strange, 
heavy  calm  possessed  him,  oppressed  him.  One 
impression  recurred  again  and  again,  like  the 
beating  of  a  sluggish  pulse :  Dan  must  die — might 
even  now  be  dead — -and  the  meanings  and  values 
of  life  must  be  changed. 

Keller  awaited  him  at  Waterloo.  A  glance  at 
the  man's  face  sufficed. 

"Oh,  Joe!"  he  cried.     "Am  I  too  late?" 

Keller  made  no  attempt  to  soften  the  fact. 
"Yes,  Dave;  too  late  to  see  him  alive.  He  died 
even  before  I  got  to  town  with  my  telegram.  He 
lived  less  than  an  hour  after  he  was  hurt." 

He  drew  his  arm  through  David's,  and  they 
went  out  across  the  common  to  where  a  blanketed 
team  stood  in  readiness.  He  kept  silence  through 
the  hurried  minutes  of  preparing  for  the  drive; 
but  when  they  were  out  upon  the  home- road  he 
volunteered  a  quiet,  further  word : 

"  It's  just  as  well.  It  wouldn't  have  done  any 
good  to  get  here  sooner,  except  for  your  mother's 
sake.  He  wasn't  conscious  at  all.  The  black 
mare  kicked  him  on  the  back  of  the  head,  fractur- 
ing his  skull,  and  then  trampled  him  underfoot. 
He  was  beyond  all  help.  But  he  didn't  suffer 
at  all,  as  he  would  if  he'd  been  conscious." 

"And  what  about  mother?" 

"  She  bears  it  well.  She's  a  wonderfully  brave 
244 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

woman.  You  needn't  be  anxious  about  her.  All 
she  wants  now  is  to  have  you  at  home." 

At  the  end  of  the  drive,  David  leaped  from  his 
seat  and  hurried  up  the  long  pathway  through 
the  snow  -  laden  shrubbery,  entering  the  hall, 
casting  aside  his  coat,  and  kicking  the  snow  from 
his  feet.  There  was  an  ominous  hush  in  the 
house,  though  many  people  were  about,  kindly 
neighbor-folk  come  to  minister  to  fancied  needs. 
One  of  these  women  came  forward  to  meet  him, 
but  he  hardly  attended  to  her  greeting. 

"Where's  mother?"  he  asked;  and  when  the 
question  was  answered  he  ran  up-stairs  to  his 
mother's  room. 

She  was  alone,  lying  upon  her  bed.  With  a 
great  cry  she  arose  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
clinging  to  him,  hiding  her  face  upon  his  breast. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy!"  It  was  a  cry  em- 
bracing the  whole  range  of  the  mighty  passion 
of  motherhood  —  unfathomable  joy  in  his  living 
presence,  unfathomable  sorrow  in  the  presence 
of  death,  with  an  unfathomable  love  over  all. 
She  raised  her  face  to  his;  and  then,  as  never 
before,  he  saw  her  wTondrous  strength.  There 
was  no  least  sign  of  bitterness;  she  seemed  to 
know  a  depth  of  calm  which  no  earthly  bereave- 
ment could  sound  or  disturb.  Her  lips  were 
perfectly  controlled;  in  her  clear  eyes  was  the 
lambent  light  he  loved  so  well,  not  dimmed,  but 
shining  with  a  new  radiance.  Pain  and  grief 
and  loss  were  there,  but  her  faith  was  greater 

245 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

than  her  agony;  and  as  he  met  her  look,  some- 
thing of  her  courage  entered  his  own  soul. 

They  sat  down  side  by  side,  his  arms  about  her, 
holding  her  close,  while  he  pressed  tender  kisses 
upon  her  forehead,  her  eyes,  and  her  lips,  like 
an  ardent  lover;  and  she  rested  content  as  in  a 
lover's  embrace. 

"Have  you  heard  all  about  it,  son?"  she  asked, 
by-and-by. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "Joe  told  me  how  it 
happened  —  all  I  need  to  know.  What  is  there 
for  me  to  do?     Have  you  made  any  plan  yet?" 

"We  were  just  waiting  for  you,"  she  returned, 
quietly.  "There's  not  much  to  plan.  I  think 
we'll  bury  him  to-morrow  afternoon,  with  just 
a  few  of  the  neighbors  in,  so  there'll  be  nobody 
to  make  us  feel  strange.  Don't  you  think  that's 
best?  Of  course  we  can't  help  there  being  some 
sorrow  at  a  funeral;  but  I  don't  want  to  make 
any  more  show  of  it  than  has  to  be.  I've  been 
thinking  it  all  over,  lying  here.  If  I  could,  I'd 
want  to  have  it  cheerful,  like  we  thought  we 
were  only  saying  good-bye  to  him  and  sending 
him  away  to  have  a  good  time  for  a  little  while, 
till  we  can  come,  too.  That's  all  it  is,  son."  She 
took  his  big,  strong  hand  between  her  own, 
caressing  it,  holding  it  against  her  breast.  "  That's 
all  it  is.  I  know  it.  The  neighbors  all  know 
how  we  loved  each  other,  and  we  won't  have 
to  pretend  to  the  kind  of  sorrow  we  don't  feel. 
Why,  I  don't  believe  I've  cried  a  bit,  and  I  don't 

246 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

believe  I'm  going  to.  That  isn't  the  way  I  feel. 
I  think  we'll  just  have  Mr.  Kennedy  come  in  and 
talk  to  us  a  little,  and  that's  all.  I  think  that's 
enough,  don't  you?" 

The  usual  simple  routine  of  the  household  was 
not  altered.  The  mother  descended  to  the 
kitchen  after  a  time,  and,  against  the  protests  of 
the  neighbor  -  women,  helped  to  prepare  supper, 
going  about  with  her  accustomed  light,  brisk 
step,  and  taking  her  own  place  at  the  head  of  the 
table.  If  there  was  any  change  from  the  spirit 
of  other  days,  it  was  not  in  depression,  but 
rather  in  a  rare  exaltation.  Old  Uncle  Billy 
was  even  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of  half-humor- 
ous appreciation  of  the  event,  and  seemed  to  feel 
that  he  must  contribute  his  part  towards  sus- 
taining this  wonderful  spiritual  effect. 

"Say,"  he  observed  over  his  coffee-cup,  "I 
don't  believe  the  next  world's  goin'  to  be  so 
mighty  dif'rent  from  this  'n.  I've  had  lots  o' 
time  to  think  about  it,  since  I  was  young;  an' 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd  just  wake  up  an'  go 
on  about  our  business  pretty  much  like  we  been 
doin'  here.  Why  shouldn't  we?  Ain't  this  good 
enough?  If  we  don't,  I  know  I'm  goin'  to  be 
powerful  homesick.  I  got  so  used  to  this.  Come 
mornin'  o'  the  Last  Day,  I  ain't  goin'  to  feel  one 
speck  to  home  unless  I  can  go  limpin'  up  side- 
ways to'ards  the  throne,  totin'  a  couple  o'  milk- 
buckets,  an'  set  'em  down  in  the  sink  an'  say  to 
some  o'  the  women-angels  that's  hangin'  'round, 

247 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

'Now,  gimme  my  breakfast,  quick,  before  I  got 
to  go  out  an'  'tend  to  the  horses.'  I'd  lots  rather 
have  it  that  way,  too.  I  know  I  never  could  get 
used  to  loafin'  an'  havin'  no  chores.  'Twouldn't 
be  me.  An'  Dan  was  a  good  deal  that  way,  too. 
Yes,  sir;  I  reckon  we're  goin'  to  be  happy  there 
pretty  much  the  same  way  we  are  here,  except 
mebbe  a  man  '11  know  better  how  to  do  his  part." 

At  a  later  hour,  when  the  kitchen  had  been 
made  tidy  for  the  night,  and  the  neighbors  had 
gone  to  their  homes,  David  and  his  mother  stood 
together  beside  the  dead. 

"We'll  tell  him  our  good-bye  to-night,  just  us 
two,"  she  had  said.  "  It  '11  seem  more  natural, 
somehow,  and  not  so  much  like  anything  but 
good-night,  because  he  was  alive  this  morning." 

The  young  body  was  splendidly  stalwart  in 
bulk  and  line,  just  as  in  life.  There  was  a  deep, 
wholesome  tan  upon  the  face,  concealing  death's 
pallor;  and  death  had  wrought  no  change  in  the 
fine,  strong  set  of  the  features.  In  the  man  who 
lives  out-of-doors,  close  to  the  heart  of  the  world, 
and  in  league  with  it,  the  change  from  life  to 
death  is  not  great;  it  seems  not  a  catastrophe,  a 
terrible  break  in  the  divinely  ordered  harmony, 
but  only  a  passing  note,  holding  in  suspension 
deeper  and  broader  harmonies  yet  to  be  sounded. 
Death  had  touched  this  face;  but  the  touch  had 
been  kindly,  softening,  .and  nothing  more. 

The  mother  stood  looking  upon  it  long  and 
tranquilly,  her  hands  loosely  folded  before  her, 

248 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

her  own  face  unimpassioned ;  then  at  last  she 
bent  and  kissed  the  still  lips.  At  the  touch  a 
ragged  sigh  escaped  her,  that  deepened  into  a 
moan. 

"Just  one  tear  for  my  boy — my  man-child!" 
she  sobbed;  and  then  the  tears  came  in  a  strong, 
warm,  living  flood.  She  knelt  and  wept  without 
restraint.  When  the  passion  was  over,  David 
raised  her  to  her  feet  and  dried  her  eyes  as 
though  he  were  caring  for  a  child. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  give  way,"  she  said.  "It 
was  weak,  maybe;  but  he  was  my  first-born. 
You  don't  know  what  that  means — no  man  does, 
or  can.  It's  the  very  first  sign  that  Heaven 
gives  to  a  woman  that  her  own  mission  in  the 
world  is  to  be  fulfilled.  It's  a  different  feeling, 
somehow,  from  every  other.  That  was  what 
made  me  cry;  it  wasn't  just  because  I  was  weak." 
She  smiled  bravely  up  into  his  troubled  eyes. 
"That's  all.  I'll  not  do  it  any  more.  We'll 
go  to  bed  now,  son,  and  rest  up  for  to-mor- 
row." 

"Go  thy  way;  thy  son  liveth."  So  spoke  the 
village  preacher  to  the  listening  soul  of  the  mother. 
He  made  but  a  poor  figure,  standing  by  the 
window  in  the  full  afternoon  light;  shabby, 
awkward,  grown  old  before  his  time,  made  almost 
abject  by  long  uncertainty  of  himself  and  his 
work;  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  picked  from  a 
crowd  as  a  chosen  messenger  of  God.     In  the 

249 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

first  few  moments  his  habitual  timidity  weighed 
heavily  upon  him,  so  that  he  halted  and  stumbled 
in  his  slurring  speech,  as  he  faced  the  people  and 
felt  that  they  were  appraising  him,  in  old  human 
fashion  taking  account  of  his  manner  and  words 
rather  than  of  his  thought.  Then  his  eyes  en- 
countered the  mother-eyes  and  held  to  them ;  his 
drooping  shoulders  lifted,  and  he  spoke  steadfast- 
ly to  her  alone. 

"Go  thy  way;  thy  son  liveth.  We  call  death 
a  sad  mystery,  because  we  cannot  understand; 
yet  it  is  no  more  a  mystery  than  life.  The 
mystery  is  not  in  life  or  in  death,  for  these  are 
familiar  facts,  but  in  the  purpose  of  Him  who 
ordains  both.  To  that  we  are  blind,  save  as  we 
have  faith  that  it  is  wise  and  good.  He  has  His 
plan,  and  He  carries  it  out,  while  we  laugh  and 
weep.  If  we  could  see  the  end,  no  doubt  we 
should  see  that  we  have  laughed  and  wept  always 
at  the  wrong  times ;  but  if  He  meant  us  to  see,  we 
should  not  be  blind.  He  sees,  and  is  not  that 
enough?  Death,  no  less  than  life,  is  a  part  of 
His  plan,  and  therefore  wise  and  good  and 
beautiful.  Yesterday  we  said  that  this  man 
lived;  in  his  vigorous  youth  he  seemed  so  much 
alive  that  he  made  us  share  in  his  joy  of  life. 
To-day  we  call  him  dead,  sorrowing  because  his 
death  seems  to  us  untimely,  the  promise  of  his 
youth  and  strength  unredeemed.  Yet  it  came  to 
pass  at  the  appointed  time.  Not  one  of  us  can 
ever  say  with  certainty  of  his  life  and  work,  it  is 

250 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

finished.  To  us  the  death  of  any  man  seems  un- 
timely while  he  has  strength  and  purpose  and  the 
will  to  work.  But  the  task  God  has  set  for  us 
He  will  let  us  do,  and  death  is  His  sign  that  it  is 
done.  It  is  all  included  in  His  design,  and  there 
are  no  accidents,  and  nothing  goes  wrong.  Be- 
lieving this,  we  need  fear  neither  life  nor  death. 
We  live  but  to  die :  that  is  only  a  half  -  truth. 
The  rest  of  it  is  that  we  die  but  to  live  again.  In 
the  beginning  was  life,  and  the  end  shall  be  life; 
for  God,  the  soul  of  all,  is  not  dead,  but  living. 
'  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.'  '  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled.'  Sometime,  somewhere, 
somehow,  we  shall  know.  '  If  it  were  not  so,  I 
would  have  told  you.'  Go  thy  way,  dear  mother 
of  the  dead;  thy  son  liveth!" 

In  the  evening  of  that  day  David  and  his 
mother  sat  long  together  before  an  open  fire  in 
the  sitting-room  at  home,  borrowing  of  its  cheer 
and  talking  calmly  of  many  things. 

"  There  need  be  no  break  in  your  plans,  David," 
she  said.  "  I  want  you  to  keep  on  with  them. 
Dan  was  a  farmer;  he  liked  the  farm  and  would 
have  kept  it  up,  and  while  he  lived  I  felt  that 
way,  too — I  suppose  because  this  had  been  home 
so  long.  But  now  it's  different,  and  there's  no 
reason  why  you  should  go  on  with  it.  I  know 
you'll  consider  me;  but  the  best  way  to  do  that 
is  just  to  consider  your  own  wishes.  I  shall  be 
happy  anywhere,  if  I  know  you're  doing  what 

251 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

you  most  want,  and  I  couldn't  be  happy  other- 
wise.    I  mean  just  that,  son." 

The  speech  touched  the  vital  centre  of  his 
thoughts.  He  had  wondered  what  she  would  say, 
and  he  listened  intently.  Yet  when  it  was  said, 
and  the  chance  was  his,  he  did  not  feel  the  ela- 
tion he  had  expected.  She  would  not  stand  in 
his  way;  but  did  he  want  her  to  get  out  of  his 
way?  In  spite  of  her  assurance,  he  knew  where 
her  greatest  happiness  lay.  Long  afterwards  he 
was  glad  to  remember  that  his  answer  came  at 
once  and  without  reserve. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  right  here  with  you,  mother, 
for  a  while.  This  is  where  I  seem  to  belong  just 
now,  more  than  anywhere  else.  There's  no  hurry, 
even  if  I  decide  that  I  want  to  stick  to  the  law. 
We'll  just  live  along  here,  and  I'll  run  the  farm 
in  Dan's  place  till  we  see  what  comes.  That's 
settled.  Now  don't  you  fret  about  me.  I'm 
not  giving  up  anything;  there's  lots  of  time." 

And,  indeed,  after  the  stress  and  strain  of  the 
eventful  weeks  preceding,  his  return  to  the  labor 
of  the  farm  promised  a  vast  relief.  Here  at  least 
were  no  complexities,  no  puzzles;  here  at  least 
the  day's  motives  and  the  day's  work  were  plain. 

He  had  one  long  talk  with  Watson,  explaining 
the  new  obligations  that  were  laid  upon  him.  He 
did  not  speak  of  a  final  surrender  of  his  plan,  but 
only  of  letting  it  lie  in  abatement  for  a  time,  until 
conditions  might  be  adjusted  and  he  could  take  it 
up  again  without  fear  of  the  emotional  complica- 

252 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

tions  that  would  be  likely  to  follow  a  neglect  of 
obvious  present  duty;  and  Watson  heartily  ap- 
proved. 

"The  place  is  yours  when  you're  ready,"  he 
said ;  "  so  take  your  own  time.  You've  chosen  the 
right  course,  and  you  can  take  my  word  for  it  that 
you  won't  be  sorry." 

David  collected  his  few  belongings  from  the 
office  and  his  boarding-house,  and  when  that  was 
done  he  went  in  some  trepidation  to  say  good-bye 
to  Margaret ;  but  she  was  gone  out  for  the  day,  and 
he  returned  to  Waterloo  without  seeing  her.  It 
was  better  so,  he  told  himself.  In  his  relaxed  con- 
dition of  mind,  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  let  the 
whole  matter  rest  until  he  should  have  time  to 
collect  himself.  He  was  even  a  little  curious  to 
try  the  experiment  of  separation  from  her,  to  see 
what  it  would  effect.  Already  he  felt  a  quieting 
of  the  long,  passionate  tumult.  It  was  not  a  re- 
action, a  lessening  of  desire,  but  only  a  lull,  a  long- 
er look  forward,  and  a  subjugation  of  his  madness 
of  impatience.  He  wrote  to  her  once — a  boyish 
letter,  though  its  expressions  of  feeling  were  stu- 
diously moderate — and  she  replied  in  a  letter  that 
was  to  him  a  more  complete  revelation  of  herself 
than  any  she  had  ever  given — sympathetic,  hope- 
ful, inspiriting,  seeming  like  a  distinct  message 
from  one  who  had  been  ordained  to  sustain  an 
intimate  relation  to  his  destiny.  It  left  him  with 
no  shadow  of  doubt  as  to  his  attitude  towards 
her.     Whatever  the  hinderances  of  the  moment, 

253 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

whatever  the  lagging  progress  of  events  to  come, 
he  loved  her.     Of  that  he  was  very  sure. 

The  days  passed  quickly  enough.  There  were 
no  large  tasks,  but  only  a  multitude  of  little  things 
to  be  done,  after  the  manner  of  the  thrifty  farmer 
in  midwinter,  making  ready  for  the  coming  sea- 
son in  the  fields.  Uncle  Billy  was  his  only  helper; 
they,  with  the  mother,  made  up  the  household  in 
those  days,  and  their  life  was  simple,  almost  ele- 
mental. David  was  a  good  worker,  and  he  pur- 
sued his  work  with  vigor,  as  though  aware  that 
purposeful  bodily  labor  would  be,  as  it  has  always 
been,  a  preventive  and  a  cure  of  mental  distresses. 
And  so  he  found  it.  As  the  days  passed,  each 
bearing  its  own  reward  of  definite  accomplish- 
ment by  his  hands,  he  felt  only  an  increasing  as- 
surance, a  truer  reliance  upon  the  belief  that  hu- 
man life  and  conduct  rest  at  bottom  upon  solid 
foundations.  His  energy  seemed  inexhaustible. 
In  the  first  gray  light  of  every  dawn,  long  before 
the  older  folk  were  astir  in  the  house,  he  was  about 
his  work  in  yard  or  barn  or  shed,  mending  the 
broken  fences,  cleaning  the  rusted  machinery,  car- 
ing for  the  stock,  or,  when  all  else  failed,  swinging 
his  axe  lustily  upon  the  great  pile  of  firewood, 
finding  a  supreme  satisfaction  in  every  sturdy 
movement.  The  last  fading  light  of  every  even- 
ing found  him  reluctant  to  stop;  and  when  he 
would  go  to  bed,  his  strong  muscles  cloyed  with 
the  delight  of  day-long  "exercise,  still  he  felt  no 
weariness  of  mind.     Those  night  hours  were  the 

254 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

best  of  all,  when  he  lay  looking  out  through  the 
window  beside  his  bed  at  the  little  square  of  sky- 
beyond,  where  the  brilliant  stars  seemed  so  close 
as  to  be  caught  and  held  like  quivering  live  things 
in  the  light  net-work  of  the  bare  elm  branches. 
Then,  as  at  no  other  time,  he  had  no  secrets  from 
himself;  then,  in  the  delicious  interval  between 
waking  and  sleeping,  he  cherished  thought  of 
Margaret. 

Ruth  was  at  home  again,  and  he  saw  her  oc- 
casionally on  the  long  Sunday  afternoons.  He 
might  not  have  told  the  reason  for  his  visits,  but 
there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  against  them.  He 
had  given  up  for  the  present  the  intention  of  tak- 
ing her  into  his  confidence  concerning  Margaret. 
That  must  wait  with  all  the  rest.  They  were  al- 
most never  alone;  the  care  of  the  swarming  chil- 
dren and  the  obligations  of  housekeeping  pressed 
upon  her.  They  met  in  a  spirit  which  demanded 
no  privacy — the  spirit  of  generous  comradeship. 
There  was  no  outward  sign  of  change  from  the 
tacit  understanding  of  an  earlier  time.  He  real- 
ized— he  had  never  failed  to  realize — the  exquisite 
grace  and  sweetness  of  her  womanhood,  and  she 
was  very  dear  to  him  now,  as  always.  The  change 
that  had  come  was  not  to  be  expressed  in  outward 
signs;  it  was  too  intangible  for  any  expression, 
too  elusive  to  be  seized  upon  save  by  the  incom- 
municable processes  of  intuition.  But,  though 
they  spoke  no  word  about  it,  he  knew  that  she 
felt  it,  and  he  dimly  wondered  how  she  would 

255 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

explain  it  to  herself  —  whether  she  divined  the 
truth,  or  was  content  to  charge  his  altered  mood 
to  the  sharply  altered  conditions  of  his  life. 
Though  he  had  a  recurring  sense  of  obligation, 
almost  of  guilt,  he  let  the  matter  rest  for  the 
time  without  attempting  to  justify  himself.  When 
their  meetings  came  he  welcomed  them,  finding 
in  her  companionship  a  solace,  a  restfulness,  that 
defied  analysis,  though  it  was  sure.  And  between 
times  he  worked  with  all  his  might. 

Two  months  were  sped,  and  the  life  behind  the 
lowered  curtain  of  winter  was  softly  tuning  for  the 
overture  of  spring — faint,  far  sounds,  audible  to 
the  soul  rather  than  to  the  ear ;  sounds  of  the  first 
stir  of  sap  rising  in  the  trees,  of  the  first  least 
swelling  of  the  buds  in  their  coverings,  of  the  first 
quickening  beneath  the  last  year's  mantle  of  de- 
caying mould.  That  is  the  time  when  every  sleep- 
ing thing,  though  with  eyes  still  closed,  breathes 
a  long,  deep,  awakening  sigh.  Walls  shut  out  the 
sound,  but  the  out-door  man  hears  and  under- 
stands and  responds. 


XXII 

ONE  night  in  early  March  David  walked  through 
the  lane  that  led  from  the  upper  hills  to  the 
deep  hollow  of  the  valley.  The  day's  work  had 
been  unusually  hard,  but  at  its  end  he  felt  in  every 
fibre  of  his  body  a  resilience  superior  to  any  fa- 
tigue. He  knew  its  meaning — knew  that  spring 
was  on  the  way.  Snow  still  lay  heaped  on  the 
northern  side  of  trees  and  fences,  but,  though  it 
was  long  past  sunset,  at  the  sides  of  the  lane  tiny 
rivulets  ran  down  to  the  Elkhorn,  chuckling  in 
happy  undertone.  The  night  wind,  laden  with 
earthy  odors,  was  warm  upon  his  cheek. 

He  paused  at  the  yard  gate,  leaning  lightly  upon 
it,  looking  away  across  the  shadowy  sweep  of  the 
landscape,  not  attending  closely  to  what  he  saw, 
but  rather  to  what  was  going  on  within  himself, 
feeling  the  swifter  movement  of  his  blood  and  the 
reawakening  of  the  dormant  impulses  of  his  youth, 
ordained  since  the  beginning  to  come  with  the 
bourgeoning  of  the  new  year.  Undefined  at  first, 
his  thoughts  soon  centred  upon  Margaret,  and  he 
let  them  have  free  way,  checking  nothing,  hiding 
nothing.  In  those  few  moments  he  grew  deter- 
mined. He  would  wait  no  longer.  If  she  loved 
17  257 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

him,  as  he  dared  to  hope,  one  time  was  as  good  as 
another  for  the  confession;  and  at  least  he  was 
resolved  to  tell  her  of  his  own  love  without  more 
delay. 

He  went  to  Omaha  early  the  next  morning.  His 
first  thought  had  been  to  go  straightway  to  Mar- 
garet; but  afterwards  he  had  concluded  that  he 
would  first  talk  with  her  father.  With  that  in- 
tention, he  hurried  from  the  station  to  Watson's 
office. 

Watson  was  in  his  private  room,  pacing  the 
floor,  his  big  face  suffused  with  the  flush  of  strong 
mental  agitation.  His  walk  ceased  as  David  en- 
tered, and  he  offered  his  hand  warmly,  though  his 
spoken  greeting  was  abrupt,  even  harsh. 

"Hello,  Boughton!  What  are  you  here  for? 
You  haven't  been  summoned  on  the  Bronson 
case,  have  you?  Haven't  you  heard  what's  hap- 
pened?" 

"I  came  to  see  you,"  David  answered.  "No, 
I  don't  know  anything  about  the  Bronson  case. 
Is  it  on  trial?" 

Watson  raised  himself  to  his  full  height,  a  tower 
of  wrath,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"You  haven't  heard,  then?  What  do  you 
think?  That  hellion  goes  scot-free !  Now  doesn't 
that  beat  the  devil  and  all  his  imps?  Here,  look 
at  this!" 

He  stepped  to  his  desk,  spreading  out  the  sheets 
of  a  morning  paper,  beating  them  flat  with  smash- 
ing blows  of  his  broad  hand,  pointing  to  the  bold 

258 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

head  -  lines  over  the  news  -  columns  on  the  first 
page: 

STATE    AGAINST    BRONSON 


JURY  DIRECTED  TO  ACQUIT 


Fatal  Error  on   Part  of  County  Attorney  in  Conduct 

of  Case. — Murderer  of  Martin  Akin  Regains  His 

Liberty  Through  an  Accident  to  the 

Machinery  of  Justice. 

David  read  with  attention  alert,  Watson  stand- 
ing over  him,  breathing  hard,  puffing  in  his  ex- 
citement. 

"  Accident!"  he  bellowed.  "  Accident!  Do  you 
suppose  the  people  can  be  made  to  believe  that?" 

"What  was  it,  then?"  David  asked.  "Wasn't 
it  an  accident?" 

"  What  was  it?"  Watson  shouted.  "  Can't  you 
see  what  it  was  without  being  told?  Have  you 
lost  your  mind?  Politics!  That's  what  it  was! 
Why,  it's  so  plain  that  a  child  could  see  it.  That 
prosecutor  has  played  the  villain,  that's  all.  He's 
paid  a  political  debt  by  sacrificing  his  official 
honor — made  an  intentional  botch  of  the  thing. 
We  might  have  known  he  would,  if  we'd  stopped 
to  consider.  Where  we  blundered  was  in  not 
getting  somebody  to  take  the  case  with  him  and 
watch  him." 

"But  I  don't  understand,"  David  said,  as  in- 
deed he  did  not. 

259 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Why,  you  infant!"  Watson  retorted,  hotly. 
"That  county  attorney  is  one  of  Bronson's  pup- 
pets. Bronson  put  him  in  office,  and  he  held 
his  office  by  Bronson's  sufferance  alone.  Isn't  it 
plain  enough?  But  do  you  think  the  people  will 
stand  for  that?  No,  by  Heaven !  not  while  I  live. 
I'll  see  that  the  pair  of  them  get  what's  coming  to 
them,  if  I  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  at  it." 

He  threw  the  paper  to  the  floor,  ground  it  under 
his  heel,  spat  upon  it  in  the  excess  of  his  rage. 
"That's  politics!"  he  thundered.  "That's  the 
sanctity  of  the  institutions  we  boast  about!" 

He  struck  again  into  his  rolling  walk,  swinging 
his  arms  aloft,  then  flung  himself  into  his  chair. 

"  Boughton,  I  swear  I'm  almost  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  honor  amongst  the  general  run  of  men 
is  pure  fiction.  I  know  it's  all  but  an  obsolete 
word  in  the  vocabulary  of  politics.  It's  archaic — 
lugged  out  and  paraded  on  the  stump  occasional- 
ly, without  the  slightest  notion  of  what  it  means. 
And  the  curse  of  it  is  that  the  people  don't  seem 
to  care.  They  grin  at  official  dishonor  as  though 
it  were  a  smart  accomplishment.  The  chances  are 
that  unless  some  fool  like  me  takes  hold  of  this 
business,  six  months  from  now  that  outlaw  Bron- 
son can  have  anything  he  wants  that's  within  the 
power  of  the  people  of  Omaha  to  give.  It's  hap- 
pened before,  a  score  of  times,  and  it  '11  happen 
again,  and  keep  on  happening,  just  so  long  as  the 
functions  of  government  are  left  in  the  hands  of 
moral  idiots." 

260 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  shook  himself,  as  though  his  temper  could 
be  thus  cast  off,  and  his  outburst  died  away  in  a 
choking  growl  in  the  depths  of  his  throat. 

"Well,  let  it  go.  We'll  attend  to  that  later. 
I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  Boughton.  I've  been 
wondering  this  long  time  how  things  were  going 
with  you.  All  right?  Have  you  made  up  your 
mind  to  come  back  here  again  so  soon?" 

David  had  cared  very  little  for  the  other  theme. 
Great  as  it  was,  it  seemed  very  impersonal  and 
unimportant  in  comparison  with  his  own  present 
purpose.  He  was  impatient  to  declare  himself, 
and  he  struck  straightway  into  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  No,  I  can't  come  back  yet.  I  must  stay  with 
mother  for  a  while.  I  came  down  just  for  to-day 
to  talk  to  you — not  about  my  work,  but  about 
something  else.  There's  no  use  in  mincing  mat- 
ters. I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  love  your  daughter, 
and  I  want  you  to  consent  that  I  may  ask  her  to 
be  my  wife." 

Watson  sat  dumfounded,  his  lips  parted,  his 
eyes  staring.  For  many  seconds  not  a  nerve 
moved.  The  blood  fled  from  his  face,  leaving  it 
overcast  with  a  gray  pallor,  then  came  surging 
back  in  a  full,  red  flood,  swelling  the  veins  into 
cords  and  bringing  big  drops  of  sweat  to  his  fore- 
head. 

"  Oh,  good  God,  Boughton !  What  are  you  say- 
ing? No,  no,  no,  no!"  The  words  swelled  into 
a  cry,  vibrant  with  pain,  and  the  heavy  features 
were  convulsed,  tortured. 

261 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

David  saw  and  beheld  in  utter  amazement.  He 
had  thought  to  arouse  surprise,  but  here  was  pas- 
sion such  as  he  had  never  seen — a  very  agony. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  simple  insistence.  "I  don't 
see  why  it  affects  you  so.  Have  you  never  thought 
that  it  might  be  true?" 

Watson  did  not  answer;  he  only  sat  as  if  stun- 
ned— staring,  staring. 

"It  is  true,"  David  went  on.  "Does  it  hurt 
you  so  much  to  know  it?  I  hoped  you  wouldn't 
feel  so.  I  do  love  her,  and  I'm  ready  to  spend  my 
life  for  her  happiness.  You  know  what  kind  of 
man  I  am.  I'm  not  rich  nor  great,  but  I  shall 
make  my  way  and  maybe  be  both  by-and-by,  if 
I  can  have  her  to  help  me — if  you'll  trust  her  to 
me." 

"Trust  her  to  you?"  Watson  echoed,  dully. 
"  Boughton,  have  you  told  her  this?" 

"  No,"  David  answered,  simply.  "  I  think  she's 
seen — I  hope  she  has — but  I've  never  told  her  out- 
right." 

"Thank  God!"  Watson  breathed,  fervently. 
"  For  God's  sake,  and  for  your  own  sake,  and  for 
my  sake,  don't  do  it!     You  must  not!" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "  You  mean  that  you 
won't  give  your  consent?"  David  asked,  at  last. 

"Consent?  Not  while  I've  got  breath  enough 
left  to  say  no.  Not  in  this  world!"  And  David 
saw  that  he  meant  it.  The  full  power  of  his  great 
will  shone  in  his  deep  eyes  and  was  expressed  in 
every  burly  line  of  his  body. 

262 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"Will  you  tell  me  why?"  David  questioned, 
wretchedly.  "I'd  never  suspected  that  you  had 
anything  against  me,  and  I'd  like  to  know  what 
it  is,  if  you're  willing  to  tell  me." 

"Against  you!"  Watson  exploded.  "What 
have  I  against  you?"  In  strange  contrast  with 
his  mood  of  a  moment  before,  he  broke  into  a 
laugh  that  shook  the  room.  "Oh,  you  poor, 
blind  boy!  Be  quiet  a  minute  now,  and  look  at 
me,  and  listen.  Why,  Boughton,  I  thought  I 
was  clear  past  being  shocked  like  this.  For  the 
life  of  me,  I  can't  see  how  you've  managed  to 
conceive  such  an  idea.  It's  so  utterly  absurd  and 
grotesque  and  ridiculous.  Make  her  your  wife! 
Why,  what  in  the  name  of —  Oh,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"  I  want  her  for  my  wife  just  because  I  love 
her,"  David  replied,  stoutly,  determined  now  to 
stand  his  ground  to  the  end.  "  Is  that  really  so 
hard  for  you  to  believe?  I  tell  you  I  do  love  her. 
That  ought  to  explain  it." 

"Oh — love!"  The  exclamation  was  not  one 
of  mere  impatience  or  scorn  or  anger,  yet  it  held 
all  three,  and  more,  in  its  accents  of  extreme 
repugnance.  "  Maybe  you  do.  It's  possible. 
But  to  think  of  marrying  her — that's  what  gets 
me.  I  can't  understand  it.  You  don't  know  her 
— you  can't!  Why,  my  dear  boy,  listen!  It  '11 
sound  cruel,  most  likely,  but  she's  not  fit  to  be 
your  wife.  In  the  first  place,  she  wouldn't  marry 
you.     You're  not  the  kind  of  man  she's  looking 

263 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

for;  you  couldn't  give  her  a  hundredth  part  of 
what  she'll  demand  of  her  husband,  when  she  gets 
him.  And  even  if  it  were  conceivable  that  she 
would  marry  you,  your  life  would  be  hell-tor- 
mented." 

David  raised  his  hand  in  impetuous  expostula- 
tion, and  his  lips  parted;  but  Watson  cut  him 
short  imperatively. 

"You  must  let  me  say  it.  I  know  her  just  for 
what  she  is.  I'm  her  father;  but  she's  her 
mother's  daughter;  and  you  know  what  it  costs 
me  to  say  that.  I'll  say  it  all  while  I'm  about 
it — for  your  sake;  and  then  we'll  bury  it  and 
forget  it  forever.  She's  one  of  the  sort  of  women 
who  ruin  men  like  you.  Her  mother  ruined  me; 
and  when  I  was  young  I  wasn't  so  very  different 
from  you.  If  she  were  to  marry  you,  she'd  turn 
your  life  into  a  waste — a  dreary,  desolate  waste. 
That's  the  best  you  could  hope  for,  after  you'd 
got  to  know  her,  and  you'd  be  almighty  lucky 
if  you  didn't  fare  infinitely  worse.  Good  God! 
Don't  I  know?" 

David  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  "  I 
don't  believe  it!"  he  cried.  "I  know  better! 
I  won't  hear  you  say  that  of  her.  I  didn't  think 
you  were  capable  of  saying  it." 

"It's  true!"  Watson  thundered,  and  brought 
his  clinched  fist  down  in  a  mighty  blow  upon  the 
desk.  "Don't  tell  me  I  don't  know  her!  I 
know  every  impulse  of  her  selfish,  false  soul. 
A-h-h!" 

264 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

The  word  was  a  shuddering  groan.  He  strug- 
gled to  his  feet,  his  face  drawn  with  terror,  his 
eyes  starting,  fixed  upon  the  doorway  that  led 
to  the  outer  room.  "Martha!"  he  gasped.  His 
hands  groped  feebly  here  and  there  for  support, 
but  they  caught  only  the  air,  and  he  sank  slowly, 
heavily  to  his  knees,  hiding  his  face  in  his  arms. 

A  woman  stood  just  within  the  door  —  a  wom- 
an poorly  clad,  gray,  haggard.  Her  face  was  the 
face  of  Margaret  grown  old  and  marked  by  name- 
less suffering. 


XXIII 

WATSON  knelt,  the  huge  mass  of  his  body 
cowering,  his  head  fallen  against  the  deep 
cushions  of  his  chair,  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 
There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  save  a  jumble  of 
faint  echoes  rising  from  the  street  far  below.  The 
woman's  appearance,  coming  unheralded  at  that 
moment  of  passionate  excitement,  had  snapped 
the  tense  thread  and  left  both  men  unnerved. 

She  was  the  first  to  move.  With  slow,  halting 
step,  as  though  fighting  her  way,  and  conquering 
little  by  little,  with  painful  difficulty,  she  passed 
to  Watson's  side  and  stood  looking  down  upon 
him  for  a  long  time. 

"Paul,"  she  said  at  last,  very  quietly — a  quiet 
that  was  not  restraint  but  a  struggle  against  a 
low  ebb  of  the  will  to  speak.  It  was  such  a 
voice  as  must  have  come  from  her  white,  drawn 
lips.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his 
shoulder  lightly  with  the  very  tips  of  her  fingers. 
"Paul,"  she  said  again. 

At  the  touch  he  shrunk  away  —  seemed  to 
shrink  within  himself,  as  though  withdrawing  to 
a  safe  retreat;  and  from  that  retreat  he  sent  out 
no  sign. 

266 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  Paul,"  she  said  for  the  third  time,  in  the  same 
lifeless  accents.  Slowly,  every  movement  a  com- 
bat, she  sank  to  her  knees  upon  the  floor,  keep- 
ing a  little  distance  between  them,  and  crouching 
like  an  abject  dog  that  dreads  the  lash.  She  did 
not  offer  to  touch  him  again ;  her  hands  lay  loosely 
clasped  in  her  lap;  even  her  glance  was  turned 
from  him,  not  to  offend  by  too  great  temerity. 
She  betrayed  no  semblance  of  any  feeling  but 
that  of  one  who  has  met  complete  defeat  and 
made  complete  surrender. 

"I've  come  back,  Paul,"  she  said,  in  level- toned 
insistence.  "  You're  not  glad  to  see  me.  I  knew 
you  wouldn't  be  —  couldn't  be;  but  I've  come 
back  to  you.  I  couldn't  stay  away  any  longer, 
or  I  shouldn't  have  come.  I  had  to  come.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  me.  I'm  not  going  to  harm 
you  any  more.  I  think  I've  done  you  all  the 
harm  I  can.  I  didn't  come  to  ask  you  to  for- 
give me,  or  to  take  me  back.  I  know  you 
couldn't  do  that,  and  I  couldn't  ask  it.  But 
I  must  make  you  understand  me.  You  don't 
understand  me  now,  Paul." 

She  raised  her  lowered  eyes  and  looked  at  him 
long  and  earnestly ;  and  as  her  glance  rested  upon 
his  bent  head  and  drooping  figure  there  came 
to  her  face  its  first  token  of  awakening  from  its 
spiritless  impassivity.  It  was  as  though,  starved, 
she  beheld  food  lying  just  beyond  her  reach. 

"Paul,"  she  said  yet  again,  "you  won't  believe 
me  unless  you  look  at  me.     Please  look  at  me! 

267 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

You  used  to  know  when  I  lied  to  you.  If  you 
look  at  me  now  you  will  know  that  I  have  come 
to  tell  you  the  truth." 

Slowly  he  raised  his  head,  and  for  an  instant 
their  eyes  met ;  then  without  a  word  he  sank  into 
his  former  attitude.  She  could  not  have  gained 
much  encouragement  from  his  look,  for  her  voice 
did  not  vary  from  its  lethargy. 

"It  will  be  seven  years  next  Thursday,"  she 
said.  "  Seven  years.  I  wonder  if  you  have  kept 
count  as  well  as  that.  I  don't  believe  you  have. 
It  isn't  a  man's  way.  A  man  would  sooner  for- 
get. But  I've  remembered,  every  day  and  every 
day.  It  has  taken  me  seven  awful  years  to  get 
the  strength  to  do  this.  I've  meant  all  the  time 
to  do  it,  when  I  should  be  strong  enough.  And 
now  you  must  listen  to  me.  I  don't  even  ask 
you  to  believe  me,  Paul — not  yet.  I'll  make  you 
believe,  if  you'll  only  listen." 

Neither  had  heeded  David,  who  had  kept  his 
seat,  a  fascinated  witness.  Suddenly  he  recov- 
ered himself  and  arose,  moving  quietly  towards 
the  door.  At  the  sound  of  his  footfall  Wat- 
son looked  up,  then  struggled  heavily  to  his 
feet. 

"For  God's  sake,  Boughton,"  he  cried,  "don't 
go!  You  must  stay  with  me.  I  can't  bear  this 
alone."  And  when  David  had  resumed  his  seat, 
he  sank  back  into  his  own  chair,  his  wife  keeping 
her  posture  on  the  floor  before  him.  He  regarded 
her  with  a  shudder  of  loathing,  but  he  kept  his 

268 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

eyes  fixed  upon  her  face  while  she  went  on  with 
what  she  had  to  say. 

"Hate  me!  hate  me!"  she  said.  "I've  earned 
your  hate,  God  knows,  and  I  don't  deny  you  the 
right  to  make  me  feel  it.  But  you  can  listen,  in 
spite  of  that,  and  I  don't  ask  anything  more.  All 
these  seven  years  I  knew  what  you  must  be  think- 
ing, when  you  thought  about  me  at  all.  My  death 
would  have  been  a  pleasant  memory  to  you  beside 
that  thought.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  kill  my- 
self once,  so  that  you  needn't  be  tormented  any 
longer  by  your  thoughts  of  me — the  thoughts  I 
knew  you  had.  But  then  I  changed  my  mind.  I 
wanted  to  live  until  I  could  bring  myself  to  do 
what  I'm  doing  now — until  I  could  come  back  and 
make  you  believe  that  the  things  you've  been 
thinking  weren't  true  at  all.  You  can  tell  if  I 
speak  the  truth,  Paul.  Listen!  Except  in  the 
very  hour  of  going  away,  I  have  been  true  to  you. 
When  I  went  away  I  was  thinking  horrible  things 
— meaning  to  do  horrible  things ;  but  I  didn't  do 
them.  As  God  hears  me,  since  you  saw  me  last 
I've  done  nothing — nothing  that  I  can't  tell  you 
without  shame,  except  that  I  did  go  away  from 
you.  That's  all  there  is  to  give  me  shame.  I 
left  him — him,  before  half  an  hour — before  we  had 
crossed  the  river,  and  I  haven't  seen  him  since, 
not  once.  Every  day  of  these  seven  years  I've 
been  a  pure  woman.  Oh,  Paul!  Paul!  It's  true 
—it's  true!" 

With  a  cry  of  passionate  appeal  she  threw  her- 
269 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

self  upon  him,  clinging  to  him,  her  arms  about  his 
knees,  her  face  bent  upon  them.  But  with  his 
great  strength  he  shook  her  off,  pushing  her  away 
roughly,  so  that  she  fell  at  her  length  upon  the 
floor.  She  lay  as  she  had  fallen,  making  no  at- 
tempt to  rise,  her  face  hidden,  her  poor  body 
shaken  with  the  stress  of  her  gasping  breathing. 

Watson  walked  the  floor  with  his  giant's  stride, 
back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  keeping  as  far 
from  her  as  the  width  of  the  room  would  allow, 
suffering  the  throes  of  a  mighty  agony.  David, 
watching  both,  pitied  both  with  all  his  soul;  but 
for  some  undiscoverable  reason  his  feeling  for  the 
man  was  greater  than  that  for  the  woman. 

Watson  paused  at  last,  regarding  his  wife  from 
a  distance  with  eyes  unyielding. 

"  I  believe  you  lie,"  he  said,  with  slow  emphasis. 
"I  have  known  you  too  well  to  believe  anything 
else." 

She  made  no  response  by  word  or  movement, 
and  he  took  up  his  walk  again,  holding  away  from 
her.  His  big  face  had  become  as  a  mask  of  stone, 
its  every  line  fixed  and  rigid.  But  little  by  little 
its  rigidity  gave  way,  fused  by  the  heat  of  his  pas- 
sion, and  once  again  his  walk  stopped. 

"  How  have  you  lived?"  he  demanded,  abruptly. 

She  arose  from  the  floor,  removing  her  worn 
black  gloves  and  stretching  her  hands  towards 
him.  There  was  an  infinite  pathos  in  the  gesture. 

"See!"  she  said.  "I  have  worked  —  worked 
hard.     At  least  you  can  believe  that,  for  there  are 

270 


I     BELIEVE      YOU      LIE,       HE     SAID,      WITH     SLOW      EMPHASIS 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

the  marks.  Every  hour  of  every  day  is  open  to 
you.  I  am  ashamed  of  nothing.  I  sold  books  at 
first ;  and  then  I  sewed ;  and  then  I  got  work  in  a 
laundry,  helping  the  book-keeper;  and  for  two 
years  I've  been  a  kitchen-servant  in  a  restaurant. 
I  had  to  live,  and  I  took  what  I  could  get  to  do. 
I'm  proud  of  that  part.  I've  earned  my  living 
honestly,  and  it's  been  enough.  You  can  believe 
that!  Those  aren't  the  hands  you  knew;  they're 
rough  and  hard.     Feel!" 

But  he  caught  his  hands  together  behind  him, 
turning  away. 

"  Paul,"  she  repeated,  "  I  don't  ask  you  to  for- 
give me.  I  don't  ask  anything  for  myself — only 
that  you  will  believe  me.  All  I've  been  living  for 
has  been  to  come  and  tell  you  this.  When  I  see 
that  you  believe,  I  shall  go  away  again  and  never 
trouble  you  any  more.  Is  it  too  much  to  believe? 
Don't  you  want  to  believe  it,  Paul  —  that  I've 
kept  myself  pure?  Would  you  believe  it  if  you 
could?" 

She  drew  close  to  him,  plucking  at  his  sleeve, 
thrusting  herself  before  him,  striving  to  compel 
him ;  but  once  again  he  freed  himself,  pushing  her 
aside. 

"Don't  touch  me!"  he  commanded.  Then  he 
flashed  out  bitterly,  savagely:  "Why  did  you 
come  to  me  with  this?  What  was  the  need  of  it? 
Even  if  this  wretched  story  were  true,  you  would 
better  have  stayed  away.  Your  coming  here  can 
do   only   harm,    by   starting   fresh   tortures   and 

271 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

quickening  a  scandal  that  would  be  better  dead. 
You  could  have  played  your  part  from  a  distance 
just  as  well,  if  you  have  stated  your  real  pur- 
pose. I  don't  believe  you  have.  There's  some- 
thing back  of  it  all.  You  dare  not  tell  me  just 
why  you  came." 

She  faced  him  with  a  supreme  courage.  "  Would 
you  like  to  know  why  I  came?"  she  asked.  "  My 
true  reason— shall  I  give  it  to  you?" 

"  You  needn't  say  it,"  he  returned,  harshly.  "  I 
know  it  better  than  you  can  tell  me.  You've  heard 
that  I'm  going  to  the  Senate,  and  you  want  your 
share  of  the  glory." 

She  did  not  flinch  under  the  cruelty  of  the  im- 
putation. "I  had  heard  of  that,  and  was  glad," 
she  said;  "but  that  is  not  why  I  have  come.  I 
came  because  I  could  not  endure  my  life  any  longer 
without  seeing  you  face  to  face  and  telling  you 
the  truth  with  my  own  lips.  But  that  was  only 
a  part  of  my  reason.  I  meant  to  say  only  so  much, 
and  then  to  leave  you  when  I  saw  that  you  be- 
lieved me.  I  should  have  gone  away  happy  if  I 
had  seen  that.  But  now  I  can't  stop  with  that 
alone.  You  compel  me  to  go  on,  after  what  you 
have  said.  Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  will.  I  came 
because  I  love  you,  Paul.  It  was  love  that 
brought  me.     I  love  you!" 

"God!"  he  breathed — a  prolonged  whisper,  half 
a  sigh  and  half  a  groan.  "Oh,  my  God!  Have 
you  no  pity?"  Again  she  drew  towards  him;  but 
he  retreated  to  the  wall,  setting  his  back  against 

272 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

it,  throwing  out  his  hands  to  ward  her  off.  "  Keep 
away!"  he  gasped.     "  Don't  touch  me!" 

Obediently  she  stood  back,  but  opening  her 
arms  to  him,  inviting  him,  her  sad  face  glorified  as 
only  love  can  glorify. 

"I  love  you!"  she  repeated,  with  a  quiet  exul- 
tation. "  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time  —  from 
the  very  day  I  left  you,  when  I  began  to  think 
of  what  I  had  brought  upon  you.  I  never  had 
known  before  what  my  love  for  you  was;  but  I 
knew  then.  I  denied  it  to  myself  at  first,  because 
I  was  weak  and  proud ;  but  I  knew  it  was  true,  and 
it  has  been  growing  truer  and  truer  every  day.  I 
fought  as  long  as  I  could,  and  when  I  could  fight 
no  more,  I  came.  You  were  always  a  just  man !" 
she  cried.  "You  weren't  always  generous  in  all 
things  with  me,  nor  gentle,  nor  sympathetic;  but 
you  were  always  just,  at  least.  I  don't  believe 
you  could  be  less  than  just  to  any  one,  and  that's 
all  I  ask  for  myself.  Paul,  you  dare  not  be  unjust 
to  me  now.  I  have  done  you  a  terrible  wrong; 
but  I  have  suffered  more  than  you,  knowing  how 
you  must  hate  me,  though  I  loved  you  with  all  my 
soul.  I  do  love  you,  and  I  shall  stay  here  until  I 
make  you  believe  it.  I  want  nothing  else  of  you ; 
but  you  must  believe!" 

His  hot  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  hers  while  she 
spoke,  searching  them,  piercing  through  to  what 
lay  behind.  When  she  had  finished,  he  stood  with 
his  chin  sunk  upon  his  breast,  his  arms  hang- 
ing, in  the  lax  attitude  of  a  fighter  who,  having 
is  273 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

fought  to  the  utmost,  can  no  longer  sustain  his 
defence,  and  awaits  the  last  blow,  only  his  will 
unconquered. 

"Go  away,  Martha!"  he  pleaded.  "Go  away 
for  a  little  while!  I  can't  talk  to  you  now.  You 
must  give  me  a  chance  to  think." 

Without  further  word  she  turned  from  him  and 
left  the  room ;  but  her  step  was  the  step  of  a  vic- 
tor, not  that  of  one  vanquished. 

In  those  few  minutes  Watson  seemed  to  have 
aged  by  a  score  of  years.  The  flesh  of  his  full  face 
hung  in  flaccid  folds;  there  was  a  burden  of  age 
upon  his  stooped  shoulders,  and  his  walk,  as  he 
shuffled  slowly  towards  his  chair,  was  that  of  an 
infirm  old  man.  His  eyes  met  David's,  and  David 
saw  that  their  accustomed  fire  had  died  out,  leav- 
ing them  lustreless,  expressive  of  nothing  but  an 
uncomprehending  wonder. 

"  Well,  Boughton,"  he  said,  feebly,  with  a  faint, 
unmeaning  smile.  "What  do  you  make  of  this, 
anyway?  It's  a  great  day  for  both  of  us,  isn't 
it?" 

David's  own  trouble  had  vanished  before  this 
other,  so  infinitely  greater ;  recalled  to  him  thus,  it 
seemed  not  very  portentous,  and  he  did  not  dwell 
upon  it ;  his  strongest  feeling  was  one  of  profound 
compassion  for  the  broken  man  before  him. 

"I  wish  I  knew  what  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Wat- 
son," he  ventured. 

"Yes,"  Watson  returned,  with  only  an  imper- 
sonal interest.     "Yes,  I  wish  so,  too.     What  do 

274 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

you  think?  You're  unprejudiced.  Is  she  play- 
ing fair  with  me?" 

"I  believe  she  told  you  the  truth,"  David  an- 
swered, simply,  earnestly. 

"Do  you?  Do  you,  really?"  Watson  ques- 
tioned. "Well,  you  can't  tell.  It  would  be  a 
great  comfort  to  me  to  think  so.  She  spoke  as 
though  I  might  have  forgotten  her  —  you  heard 
how  she  said  it.  But  I  haven't.  I've  tried  to 
forget,  but  I  couldn't  help  remembering;  and 
especially  of  late  I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about 
her,  wondering  about  her.  I  loved  her  once,  sure 
enough,  and  a  man  can't  easily  get  over  those 
memories  of  love.  She  touched  me  in  a  raw  place 
when  she  spoke  of  love.  You  can't  guess,  and  no 
more  could  she,  how  much  I've  wanted  her  late- 
ly, since — since  I've  won  some  of  the  things  we 
planned  for  together  when  we  were  young.  It 
seems  like  an  irony  of  fate  that  I  didn't  win  much 
of  anything  while  I  had  her,  and  then  found  it  easy 
to  win  after  I'd  lost  her.  I  guess  it  was  because  I 
was  suspicious  that  she  wanted  me  to  win  so  that 
some  selfish  vanity  of  hers  might  be  gratified,  and 
I  stubbornly  wouldn't  do  it.  I  thought  she  wasn't 
satisfied  with  me,  and  it  made  me  meanly  jealous. 
I  know  that  was  so.  We  split  on  that,  and  began 
to  drift  apart,  and  I  pretended  I  didn't  care.  I 
simply  couldn't  drive  myself  to  show  what  I  really 
felt.  God  knows  I  did  care;  but  I  wouldn't  have 
let  her  see  it  for  the  world.  Then  when  she  was 
gone,  I  set  myself  to  gain  what  I  thought  she'd 

275 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

coveted,  out  of  sheer  perversity ;  and  all  the  time 
it  was  bitter  as  hell  to  me.  God  knows  I  did  care. 
God  only  knows  how  I've  missed  her.  And  now 
she's  come,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

His  voice  was  thin,  worn,  tight  with  pain.  In 
the  extremity  of  his  weakness  a  tear  crept  out  on 
his  cheek  and  fell  upon  his  hand.  He  lifted  his 
hand,  regarding  the  glistening  drop  with  listless 
curiosity  for  a  moment  before  brushing  it  away. 

"Yes,"  he  said  again,  "it  would  comfort  me 
mightily  to  think  so."  Then,  with  almost  child- 
ish eagerness :  "  Why,  Boughton,  I'd  give  my  hope 
of  eternal  life  if  I  could  be  sure  of  her  for  one  single 
hour.  I  haven't  been  sure  of  anything  for  so  long, 
I'd  count  it  a  good  bargain.  One  hour  of  cer- 
tainty would  be  worth  it  to  me  just  now." 

He  passed  his  hand  wearily  across  his  eyes,  as 
though  he  would  brush  away  a  troublesome  mist. 
"  Boughton,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you  won't  mind  if 
I  ask  you  to  leave  me  alone  for  a  while.  You 
can't  help  me,  not  a  bit;  and  I  must  have  time  to 
think  this  thing  out  for  myself." 

He  clung  to  the  boy's  hand  in  parting,  seeming 
to  draw  strength  from  it.  "I'm  much  perplexed," 
he  confessed;  "but  I'll  try  to  think  of  you,  too, 
and  what  you  told  me.  I  don't  know.  Maybe 
we  can  see  our  way  out  yet." 


XXIV 

DAVID  went  away  feeling  that  his  own  hope 
had  been  worse  than  aborted — that  it  had 
been  misbegotten.  As  he  contemplated  it  now, 
with  what  courage  he  could  summon,  and  in  the 
light  of  what  had  just  passed,  it  seemed  to  have 
fallen  altogether  shapeless,  with  all  vitality  gone 
out  of  it.  That  it  could  rise  again  to  life  was  past 
belief.  Nothing  remained  but  to  abandon  it  and 
to  let  it  go  the  way  of  the  dead.  His  first  instinct 
was  to  go  back  to  his  home — to  drop  safely  back 
to  his  level  and  to  keep  to  it.  To  his  disturbed 
vision  even  the  fact  of  his  love,  that  had  shone  so 
steadfast  and  so  golden  a  few  hours  before,  ap- 
peared as  only  a  spectral  shape,  looming  dimly 
beyond  his  reach,  and  ready  to  fade  altogether  if 
he  would  try  to  draw  near  to  it.  The  first  train 
for  home  would  leave  in  half  an  hour.  He  was 
quite  ready  to  let  it  carry  him  back  to  his  fields 
and  away  from  these  intolerable  illusions  of  a  dis- 
tempered fancy. 

But  that  was  not  to  be.  On  the  street  the  hu- 
man stream,  that  had  flowed  slenderly  through 
the  morning  hours,  had  been  swelled  to  thrice  its 
volume  by  the  noontime  discharge  from  offices 
and  shops,  and  was  moving  like  a  sudden  freshet. 

277 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  plunged  into  it,  making  his  way  towards  the 
station,  heedless  of  the  rude  jostling,  thinking  only 
of  escape. 

Presently  he  was  dimly  aware  that  his  name  had 
been  spoken  near  by;  but  it  did  not  arouse  him. 
The  call  was  repeated,  and  when  he  looked  around 
he  saw  a  neat  trap  drawn  up  to  the  curb,  moving 
along  in  time  with  his  walk.  Upon  the  high  seat 
was  Margaret,  bending  towards  him  with  a  smile, 
her  small,  gloved  hand  extended;  and  he  knew 
that  he  was  not  yet  free. 

"  It's  too  bad  to  break  in  upon  such  abstrac- 
tion," she  said,  in  light  raillery;  "but  it's  so  long 
since  I've  seen  you  that  I  couldn't  miss  the  chance 
of  saying  how  do  you  do,  at  least." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  without  speaking, 
his  grasp  tightening,  until  she  gently  released  her- 
self and  moved  to  the  farther  end  of  the  seat. 

"  Are  you  really  so  much  engrossed?"  she  asked, 
brightly.  "  Are  you  too  busy  to  come  with  me  for 
a  little  while?  It's  too  fine  a  day  by  half  to  be 
spent  in-doors.  I'm  going  to  drive  for  an  hour 
or  so  before  luncheon;  and  then  I'll  let  you  lunch 
with  me,  if  you  like,  and  we  can  talk.  I  want  to 
know  all  about  what  you've  been  doing.     Come !" 

He  climbed  into  the  place  she  made  for  him  at 
her  side,  and  she  turned  her  horse  up  the  hill  and 
into  an  asphalted  side  street  that  stretched  its 
level  length  northward.  For  a  time  talking  was 
impossible.  The  horse  was  a  spirited  animal, 
fresh  from  the  stable  and  full  of  a  lusty  desire  for 

278 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

motion,  and  not  to  be  curbed  at  once.  Margaret 
was  an  excellent  horsewoman.  She  let  the  beast 
have  his  head,  giving  herself  up  to  the  exhilaration 
of  his  speed,  every  muscle  of  her  lithe  body  re- 
sponsive, while  David  sat  with  his  glance  intent 
upon  her  beautiful  face,  seeing  the  warm  color 
rising  to  her  cheeks  and  the  quickening  glow  of 
youth  and  health  in  her  wonderful  eyes.  He  did 
not  want  to  talk ;  he  did  not  try  to  think  what  he 
would  say  when  the  time  came.  To  be  in  her 
presence,  to  be  brought  again  into  a  living  con- 
tact, with  susceptibilities  rendered  more  than  ever 
acute  by  the  long  separation,  and  now  more  than 
ever  satisfied  by  what  they  fed  upon,  that  was 
enough.  Everything  else  he  was  able  to  cast  aside 
and  forget  —  the  painful  scenes  of  the  morning; 
Watson's  furious  outburst  concerning  the  girl ;  his 
own  despairing  irresolution  —that  seemed  the  least 
real  of  all. 

By  the  time  the  horse  had  spent  his  excess 
spirit  and  had  settled  to  a  soberer  gait,  they  had 
passed  from  the  town  streets  and  out  upon  a  broad, 
winding  boulevard  that  ran  along  the  summit  of 
the  wooded  bluffs  overlooking  the  river.  There 
Margaret  passed  the  reins  into  David's  hands. 

"Now,  you  may  have  him,"  she  said.  "I  al- 
ways hold  on  until  he  gives  up,  no  matter  how 
long  it  takes;  but  when  he  has  given  up,  it  isn't 
interesting  any  more.  I  suppose  that's  merely 
human  nature,  isn't  it?  I'm  always  glad  to  have 
some  one  along  to  drive  for  me  after  that ;  and  I'm 

279 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

extra  glad  it  happens  to  be  you  to-day,  because 
I've  been  wondering  about  you  for  so  long — what 
you  were  doing  and  thinking;  and  now  you  can 
tell  me  while  I  rest.  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  rest, 
too.  Don't  you  think  he's  an  unusually  strong 
animal?  Now,  tell  me:  have  you  come  back  to 
stay?" 

"  No ;  not  yet,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  an  errand 
in  town  to-day.  I  begin  to  be  afraid  I  can  never 
come  back  to  stay." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  with  ready  sympathy.  "Oh, 
that  would  be  a  pity,  after  the  splendid  beginning 
you've  made!  I  hope  it  will  turn  out  better  than 
that." 

He  was  not  inclined  to  take  up  the  discussion  at 
once.  Rather  needlessly  he  devoted  his  attention 
to  the  horse  for  a  time,  looking  straight  ahead, 
while  the  girl  covertly  observed  him,  noting  the 
firm,  square  set  of  his  shoulders  and  the  evident 
restraint  upon  his  face. 

"  I  hope  nothing  has  gone  wrong,"  she  ventured, 
at  last. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  returned.  "  Before  I  met 
you  back  there  in  town,  everything  seemed  to 
have  gone  wrong — everything.  But  now  I'm  not 
so  sure.     I  wish  I  could  be  sure." 

She  gave  him  another  scrutiny,  quicker,  keener 
than  before,  and  fully  comprehending,  though  she 
feigned  to  let  his  meaning  escape  her.  She  was 
more  learned  than  he  in  the  art  of  feigning.  She 
did  not  try  to  turn  aside  his  evident  intention,  as 

280 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

perhaps  she  might  have  done  even  then;  for  an 
end  of  her  own  she  invited  him  to  go  on. 

"Is  it  anything  you  can  tell  me?"  she  asked, 
gently. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  resolution.  "It  is 
something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  must  let  me 
say  it.  It  has  been  put  off  too  long  as  it  is.  I've 
never  been  a  man  to  put  off  things  that  I  thought 
ought  to  be  said,  when  I  was  sure  of  my  right  to 
say  them ;  and  this  is  one  of  them.  You  must  let 
me  speak." 

She  was  entirely  composed;  and  in  that  statu- 
esque serenity  she  was  always  most  lovely  to  his 
eyes.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  I  may  let  you 
say  what  is  to  be  said.  I  think  it  is  better  that 
we  understand  each  other." 

He  flashed  upon  her  a  look  of  intensest  eager- 
ness, striving  to  read  her;  but  that  he  could  not 
do.  He  thought  to  find  her  agitated,  remember- 
ing other  occasions  when  confession  was  less  im- 
minent than  now,  and  when  she  had  been  appar- 
ently unable  to  conceal  the  evidences  of  feeling. 
But  that  mood  was  not  in  control  to-day;  what- 
ever she  felt  was  well  hidden  beneath  an  unper- 
turbed exterior.  She  averted  her  face,  looking 
away  across  the  valley,  waiting  for  what  was  to 
come,  and  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to 
find  his  way  as  he  could. 

"  I  think  you  can  guess  what  it  is,"  he  said.  "  It 
began  a  long  time  ago — the  very  first  time  we  met, 
and  it  has  been  growing  ever  since.     I  ought  to 

281 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

have  told  you  before ;  it  would  have  saved  a  lot  of 
trouble.  But  there  were  a  great  many  things  I 
had  to  think  about  first — my  own  fitness  to  tell 
you,  and  my  fitness  for  what  might  come  after- 
wards. It  seemed  very  strange.  I'd  never  doubt- 
ed my  fitness  for  anything,  before  this.  I'd  al- 
ways thought  I  was  fit  for  anything  I  could  win. 
But  this  was  different.  I  had  to  think  about  my- 
self in  a  new  way.  Before  I  came  down  to  Omaha 
and  met  you,  I'd  never  been  anything  but  a  farm- 
er— just  a  plain,  honest,  simple-minded  farmer. 
You  and  your  life,  and  everything  that  belonged 
to  you,  were  wholly  new  to  me.  You  made  me 
think.  We  hardly  seemed  to  belong  to  the  same 
world  then,  until  I  got  to  know  you  better,  and 
knew  how  I  really  felt  towards  you.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  we  had  always  belonged  to- 
gether, and  always  must,  in  spite  of  all  the  differ- 
ences in  our  lives.  After  that  I  don't  know  what 
held  me  back  from  telling  you,  unless  it  was  that 
I  wanted  to  have  something  more  to  offer  you 
than  just  myself.  I'm  sorry  I  ever  thought  of 
that  at  all,  because  I  feel  sure  it  can't  make  any 
great  difference.  I  know  it  can't,  if  you  feel  any- 
thing as  I  do,  because  then  you  can  see  that  our 
differences  don't  go  very  deep,  after  all.  Under- 
neath the  differences,  we're  alike;  we're  both 
young  and  strong  and  honest.  Those  are  the 
things  that  lie  at  the  bottom  of  life,  and  the  other 
things  are  put  on  and  false — position,  I  mean,  and 
all  that.     I've  thought  it  all  out  during  these 

282 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

months,  and  I  know  that  whatever  my  position 
might  be,  or  yours,  high  or  low,  loving  you  as  I 
do,  I'd  be  bound  to  tell  you.  There!"  he  cried, 
almost  fiercely,  inspired  and  strengthened  by  the 
mere  fact  of  having  made  a  brave  beginning,  and 
carried  on  by  sheer  momentum.  "  Now  you  know, 
and  there's  no  more  chance  for  mistake.  I  love 
you,  as,  I  think,  none  but  an  honest  man  can  love 
a  woman  like  you." 

Swept  and  mastered  by  his  feeling  he  bent  tow- 
ards her,  stooping  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face. 
She  had  sat  quite  still  throughout  his  declaration, 
without  looking  at  him ;  and  now  her  posture  was 
unchanged,  so  that  he  could  see  nothing  but  the 
oval  line  of  her  beautiful  cheek  and  brow. 

"Margaret!"  he  whispered,  in  the  unreasoning 
fulness  of  his  joy.  "Margaret,  I  love  you!  Do 
you  hear?     I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you!" 

She  put  forth  her  hand  and  touched  him  lightly 
upon  one  strong  wrist;  then  the  hand  was  with- 
drawn, and  slowly,  with  an  appearance  of  reluc- 
tance, but  without  the  least  shyness,  she  turned  to 
face  him.  Her  exquisite  color  was  gone,  but  she 
was  not  pale;  her  skin  held  only  its  accustomed 
tint  of  clear  olive.  Her  eyes,  that  were  calmly 
raised  to  his,  were  to  him  inscrutable.  He  could 
not  see  in  them  anything  of  what  he  sought,  and 
his  heart  misgave  him.  She  bent  her  head  and 
sat  for  a  moment  toying  with  her  handkerchief, 
while  he  waited  in  breathless  expectancy. 

"  I  must  be  honest  with  you,  too,"  she  said  at 
283 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

last,  very  quietly,  "  though  it  won't  be  easy.  You 
have  made  it  very  hard  for  me  to  say  what  I  wish 
— harder  than  you  know;  but  you  deserve  noth- 
ing less  than  an  honest  answer.  I  shall  be  per- 
fectly sincere  with  you,  Mr.  Boughton.  I'll  tell 
you,  without  trying  to  disguise  it,  that  I  have 
suspected  your  feeling — I  have  been  almost  sure 
of  it,  once  or  twice,  and  it  hasn't  displeased  me." 
She  regarded  him  again,  with  grave,  slow  calm, 
holding  herself  in  close  control.  "  I  was  glad  to 
see  your  feeling  for  me — I  did  see  it ;  but  I  hoped 
you  would  see  that  you  ought  not  to  speak  of  it  to 
me.  It  hurts  me  very  much  to  say  this,  because 
I  think  I  know  the  kind  of  man  you  are — that  love 
is  something  very  sacred  to  you,  and  not  to  be 
trifled  with;  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  seem  to  have 
trifled  in  letting  you  come  to  this  point  with  me. 
You  mustn't  think  that,  for  it  isn't  true  at  all." 
She  saw  his  dawning  misery,  and  her  eyes  showed 
genuine  compassion;  but  she  went  on  steadily:  "  I 
can't  tell  what  might  have  happened,  if  only  we 
had  been  more  of  one  spirit — if  we  had  begun  life 
under  the  same  conditions,  and  grown  up  more 
alike.  I  shouldn't  want  you  to  be  more  like  me ; 
I  shouldn't  care  for  you  at  all  then;  but  I  might 
have  been  more  like  you.  But  it's  of  no  use  to 
talk  of  that.  We  are  of  different  worlds,  Mr. 
Boughton,  as  you  saw  at  first,  and  it  would  be  a 
dreadful  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  difference 
could  be  put  aside,  even  by  love — even  if  I  loved 
you.     But  I  do  not  love  you,  and  I  am  sure  I 

284 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

never  could,  being  as  I  am.  I  doubt  sometimes 
whether  I  am  ever  to  know  what  love  really  is — 
the  simple,  honest,  unquestioning  love  that  I  sup- 
pose others  know— men  and  women- who  are  like 
you.  I  have  never  known  that  sort  of  feeling;  I 
doubt  if  I  am  capable  of  it;  I'm  afraid  I  should 
never  be  willing  to  trust  it  and  give  myself  up  to 
it.  That's  in  my  training.  I've  seen  a  great  deal 
more  of  life  than  you  have,  and  I've  acquired 
a  dull,  tarnished  sort  of  worldly  wisdom  which 
makes  me  sceptical  of  this  frank,  fresh  impulse  of 
simple  passion.  You  don't  know  me — not  at  all. 
I  sha'n't  try  to  tell  you  what  I  really  am,  after 
living  as  I  have.  Oh,  I  shall  marry,  perhaps — 
some  time, ".she  cried,  with  a  little  gesture  of  dis- 
taste, a  faint  weariness  in  her  voice.  "  That  seems 
inevitable  in  the  social  order.  When  I  do  marry, 
I  feel  sure  it  will  be  with  my  eyes  open.  Does 
that  sound  utterly  heartless?  I  am  heartless 
most  of  the  time,  I  think.  Marriage  for  me  must 
embrace  a  great  deal  more  than  you  feel  now.  To 
be  '  young  and  strong  and  honest'  isn't  the  sum  of 
life  for  me  any  more,  if  it  ever  was — as  it  might 
have  been  if  I'd  been  differently  born." 

"  No,  no!"  he  interrupted,  wretchedly.  "  Don't 
say  that!  I  think  you  do  understand  and  feel,  in 
spite  of  what  you  say.  You  must  let  me  make 
you  feel  it.  I  can  do  it.  It  has  come  to  be  a  part 
of  my  life— my  love  for  you.  If  you'll  let  me  love 
you,  I'll  give  up  my  whole  life  to  you,  and  I'll 
make  you  happy  —  as  happy  as  I'll  be  myself. 

285 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

That's  what  love  means — happiness  and  peace  and 
everything  else  that  makes  life  worth  while.  Real 
love  doesn't  know  anything  about  those  horri- 
ble doubts  of  yours,  and  my  love  can  make  you 
forget  them.  I'll  make  you  love  me.  I  can  be 
worthy  of  you — I  can,  I  can !  You  must  let  me 
try  to  prove  it  to  you  before  you  say  no." 

She  stopped  him  gently.  "  It  isn't  a  question 
of  worth.  If  it  were  only  that,  you  would  have  a 
winning  advantage,  for  I  am  the  unworthy  one. 
You  have  overvalued  me,  because  you  haven't 
understood  me.  I've  never  shown  you  more  than 
a  very  little  part  of  myself ;  so  how  can  you  under- 
stand ?  That  is  the  difference  in  our  worlds  again 
—in  our  birth  and  training  and  traditions  and 
what  we've  learned  about  life — in  everything  that 
makes  us  what  we  are.  You've  never  known  an- 
other woman  of  my  world,  and  you've  judged  me 
by  the  standards  of  the  women  you've  known — ■ 
ingenuous,  simple-hearted  girls.  I'm  not  like  that, 
and  I  could  never  marry  a  man  like  you,  because, 
however  much  I  might  esteem  him  and  appreciate 
his  honesty  and  his  goodness  of  heart,  I  should  be 
afraid  of  tiring  of  him  as  my  husband.  Don't  de- 
spise me  for  saying  it.  I  shouldn't  want  to  grow 
tired;  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  things  I've  learned 
— miserable,  false  things,  no  doubt,  but  I've  learn- 
ed them  all  well — would  assert  themselves  in  spite 
of  me.  That  would  be  terrible.  Life  is  a  long  time, 
and  my  husband,  when  he  comes — if  he  comes  at 
all — must  be  able  to  share  with  me  in  the  things 

286 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that  make  life  real  to  me,  false  though  they  are. 
I  should  never  feel  safe  except  in  that  sort  of 
a  marriage.  You  don't  even  know  what  those 
things  are;  and  you  couldn't  sympathize  with 
them  in  the  least,  if  you  did  know.  They  don't 
belong  to  you.  Don't  you  see?  Your  life  is 
very  simple  to  you,  isn't  it?  and  plain  and 
easy,  with  only  a  few  parts;  but  my  life  has  a 
thousand  parts,  in  thought  and  taste  and  be- 
havior, which  make  it  anything  but  plain  or  easy. 
Those  things  would  hold  us  apart  more  and 
more,  as  we  came  to  know  each  other  better.  I 
couldn't  forget  them,  nor  put  them  aside."  She 
paused  for  a  moment,  laying  her  hand  upon  his 
with  a  gentle,  kindly  pressure.  "  Believe  me,  I 
have  tried  not  to  seem  unfeeling.  To  know  that 
you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do — -as  I  have  no 
doubt  you  do — is  very  sweet  to  me,  and  I  shall 
never  forget.  You  are  a  good  man.  I  haven't 
tried  to  soften  or  hide  the  truth,  for  that  would 
have  been  unjust  to  you.  I  have  told  you  very 
plainly  why  I  must  say  no,  and  you  must  let  that 
be  my  answer." 

But  he  held  on  with  grim  tenacity.  "Listen, 
Margaret!  No,  you  do  not  know  what  love  is, 
nor  its  power,  nor  anything  about  it !  I  can  teach 
you  that.  My  love  for  you  can  make  me  what 
you  wish  me  to  be — anything,  anything!  I  am 
perfectly  sure  of  it,  and  you  must  let  me  prove  it 
to  you.  Besides,"  he  said,  with  sudden  recollec- 
tion, "  there  is  another  reason  why  I  spoke  to-day. 

287 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

I  want  the  right  to  call  you  mine  because  you  will 
need  some  one." 

She  took  a  vague  alarm.  "Need  some  one?" 
she  echoed.  "What  do  you  mean?  What  has 
happened?     My  father — " 

"  Not  your  father.  You  must  find  it  out  some- 
time, and  I'd  better  tell  you  now.  Your  mother 
has  come  back." 

There  came  upon  her  face  a  change  greater  than 
that  of  death;  it  was  as  livid  as  death,  while  its 
lines  were  those  of  the  gripping  pain  of  life.  For 
a  moment  she  sat  transfixed,  her  hands  catching 
convulsively  at  his  arm;  then  she  shrank  away 
from  him  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  seat,  shiv- 
ering. 

"My  mother!"  she  said,  in  a  choked  whisper. 
"Oh,  take  me  home — quick,  quick!" 

Her  great  distress  made  an  impassable  barrier 
between  them.  Once,  when  they  were  entering 
the  town,  he  offered  to  speak,  but  she  checked 
him  imperatively,  and  after  that  he  respected  her 
desire.  At  the  hotel  she  left  him  without  a  word 
of  parting,  hurrying  into  the  building ;  and  when 
she  was  gone  he  turned  away  and  walked  slow- 
ly down  the  street  towards  the  railway  station. 
Home  would  be  his  refuge,  as  it  had  been  to  many 
another  beaten  man  before  him. 


XXV 

IT  was  with  a  keen  sense  of  defeat  that  David  tried 
to  take  up  his  work  again  at  home.  But  in 
that  work,  with  its  imperative  demand  for  strong, 
unceasing  action,  lay  his  safety.  The  season 
was  advancing;  and  little  by  little,  with  plough, 
harrow,  and  planter,  he  made  conquest  of  his 
broad  acres,  seeing  field  after  field  blacken  with 
the  upturning  of  the  rich  mould  and  grow  softly 
green  with  new  life.  There  was  infinite  healing  in 
it.  He  was  not  seeking  forgetfulness ;  but,  all  un- 
consciously, he  was  doing  better  than  forgetting. 
He  held  on  with  his  work,  giving  to  it  his  best 
thought  from  day  to  day,  letting  his  heart  and 
mind  and  soul  lie  open  to  its  benefits,  contenting 
himself  with  the  robust,  primal  satisfaction  of  the 
husbandman  answering  to  the  summons  of  spring. 
He  was  a  strong  man,  a  natural  man,  to  whom 
sun  and  wind,  rain  and  change  of  season,  were 
known  of  old.  They  spoke  to  him  in  a  language 
he  could  understand,  with  no  timid  reticence  of 
expression,  with  no  cunning  art,  but  with  frank, 
full  disclosure.  Whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  he 
gave  healthy  response. 

For  a  time  he  held  aloof  from  the  old  com- 
19  289 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

panionships  of  the  home  neighborhood,  while  he 
fought  out  the  first  sharp  struggle  with  his  sorrow. 
But  he  was  not  morbid,  and  as  the  days  passed 
he  felt  an  increasing  need  of  friendship.  After 
six  weeks  at  home,  when  he  had  rid  himself  of  his 
first  acute  despair,  one  May  evening  he  sought 
Keller  at  his  cabin -home,  on  the  bank  of  the 
Elkhorn. 

It  was  a  very  modest  abode;  a  low  house  of 
rough  logs,  nestled  in  beautiful  seclusion  among 
the  towering  elms  and  alders,  now  rich  with  their 
spring  leafage.  The  door  stood  open  to  the  night, 
and  from  it  flowed  a  flood  of  golden  light,  making 
a  pathway  across  the  new  grass.  A  wood  fire, 
late  but  kindly,  burned  upon  a  wide,  open  hearth, 
and  before  it  sat  Keller,  lolling  comfortably  in  his 
chair,  between  his  lips  the  inevitable  pipe,  a  stu- 
dent -  lamp  at  his  elbow,  many  books  scattered 
disorderly  about  upon  the  floor  and  table.  It 
was  a  fair  picture  of  masculinity  left  to  itself, 
taking  its  own  joys  in  its  own  way,  without  fear 
and  without  reproach. 

Keller  greeted  David  heartily,  but  without  ris- 
ing, bidding  him  make  himself  comfortable  where 
and  how  he  would — the  best  expression  of  a  man's 
sense  of  hospitality. 

"Snug  as  ever,  Joe,"  David  commented,  as  his 
glance  wandered  around  the  big,  book -walled 
room,  and  back  to  the  ruddy,  bearded  face  of  his 
friend. 

"Rather  snugger  than  ever  in  mind,"  Keller 
290 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

answered,  contentedly,  through  an  odorous,  blue 
haze. 

"  Dave,  did  you  ever  know  of  a  man  being 
frightened,  actually  frightened,  by  his  own  ful- 
ness of  content?" 

"Why,  what's  happened,  old  man?"  David  ask- 
ed.    "Is  it  poetry,  or  something  else?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all  has  happened.  I  don't  care 
much  for  the  immature  sort  of  happiness  that  de- 
pends on  particular  happenings.  I  can't  explain 
myself.  I'm  not  flatly  torpid,  nor  drowsy  in  de- 
sire. I'm  working  hard,  and  full  of  healthy  desires 
for  attainment,  yet  I'm  absolutely  tranquil  in 
spirit." 

A  long  silence  fell,  while  David  soberly  medi- 
tated upon  his  friend's  speech,  trying  to  fix  its 
bearings  upon  his  own  estate.  His  thoughts 
wandered  far  before  he  spoke. 

"Joe,  have  you  heard  anything  about  Mr.  Wat- 
son?" 

"Concerning  his  wife,  you  mean?"  Keller  re- 
turned. "  Yes,  I've  heard  of  that.  I  met  him  in 
Omaha  last  week.  He  looked  badly  broken,  it 
seemed  to  me  —  hunted  and  harassed.  It's  too 
bad.  His  wife's  still  in  town,  I  heard,  and  they're 
living  together;  but  he  doesn't  appear  to  be  get- 
ting much  joy  out  of  it.  I'm  genuinely  sorry  for 
him ;  it's  more  like  a  tragedy  than  anything  I  ever 
knew." 

Though  many  questions  were  astir  in  his  mind, 
he  did  not  utter  them,  but,  after  their  long-estab- 

291 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

lished  usage,  awaited  such  confidence  as  David 
chose  to  give.     After  an  interval  it  came. 

"Joe,  I  must  tell  you  how  it  is.  You  ought 
to  know,  I  think."  He  told  the  story  in  its 
entirety,  frankly,  while  Keller  listened  without 
comment  until  the  last. 

"Dave,  Dave,"  the  man  said,  at  the  end,  with 
deep  warmth  of  feeling,  "  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but 
I'm  more  glad  than  sorry.  It's  been  hard  on  you, 
but  I  suppose  you  took  the  best  way,  and  I'm 
heartily  glad  it's  turned  out  as  it  has.  You  will 
be,  too,  some  day." 

"  I  can't  believe  it,  Joe,"  David  answered.  "  It 
has  given  me  a  different  feeling  towards  the  whole 
scheme.  I'm  going  to  hold  on,  of  course,  and  try 
not  to  weaken,  but  it's  hard  work.  It's  clear  past 
me  to  understand  why  you  should  be  glad." 

Slowly  and  in  silence  they  retraced  their  steps 
through  the  woodland  to  the  cabin;  and  at  the 
door  they  parted  in  some  constraint,  David  turn- 
ing homeward  much  depressed,  thoroughly  per- 
plexed. To  add  to  his  perturbation,  he  encoun- 
tered Ruth  in  the  home  door-yard.  She  had  passed 
an  hour  with  his  mother,  she  told  him,  and  was 
just  leaving.  Though  she  offered  gentle  protest, 
he  fell  into  step  with  her,  and  together  they  went 
across  the  fields. 

They  took  the  "short  way" — a  way  that  once 
he  could  not  have  reconciled  with  desire;  but  on 
this  night  he  found/  it  long.  In  the  first  few 
minutes  he  resolved  to  seize  his  chance  .and  to 

292 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

part  with  the  girl  in  full  understanding;  that,  he 
thought,  would  reduce  his  problem  to  the  simplest 
terms,  and  so  put  it  in  the  way  of  solution.  But 
when  he  tried,  he  found  that  his  resolution  could 
not  so  easily  be  translated  into  words.  The  min- 
utes passed,  and  their  speech  was  confined  to  mere 
commonplaces.  Once  or  twice  he  made  a  tenta- 
tive beginning,  only  to  have  its  current  diverted 
by  some  light  word  of  hers,  spoken  without  ap- 
preciation of  his  mood.  He  was  glad  when  they 
came  to  her  gate;  there,  after  a  few  trivial  words, 
he  pleaded  his  own  weariness  and  the  morrow's 
work,  and  bade  her  good-bye. 

When  he  had  left  her,  and  walked  slowly  home- 
ward again,  his  dejection  was  profound.  Whether 
the  cause  was  from  within  or  without  he  did  not 
try  to  discover;  but  more  completely  than  ever 
before  he  felt  himself  mastered,  not  master.  By  a 
devious  way  he  arrived  at  a  thought  which  star- 
tled him  like  an  apparition. 

"  I  wish  I  had  never  gone  away !"  he  cried,  aloud. 
"  This  is  where  I  belonged,  and  I  could  have  been 
happy  here,  and  made  them  all  happy;  and  now 
I've  spoiled  it  all."  And  he  went  to  bed  in  moody 
despair. 

But  his  work  held  him  fast  in  leash  and  would 
not  let  him  free  from  its  influence.  The  summer 
came  on,  a  processional  of  glorious,  golden  days, 
each  bearing  symbols  of  bounty  and  of  Nature's 
content  with  herself;  and  every  day,  as  he  toiled 
in  the  fields,  she  cried  out  to  him  in  a  language 

293 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

that  contained  no  word  of  art  or  artifice.  "  Life 
for  dear  life's  sake"  was  the  song  she  sang  with 
myriad  voices — voices  of  birds  and  bees  and  of  all 
living  things,  and  voices  from  the  summer  wind 
stirring  softly  through  the  lush  green  of  his  broad 
acres  of  wheat  and  corn.  "A  man  must  do  his 
work"  she  called  in  other  times,  when  for  brief 
moments  his  hold  upon  himself  grew  lax ;  and  the 
call  was  always  tonic.  It  is  well,  no  doubt,  that 
men  are  little  conscious  of  the  processes  of  healing 
and  of  health — well  that  they  can  make  surrender 
of  themselves  to  sanative  influences,  without  de- 
manding that  they  be  allowed  to  understand.  Life 
is,  after  all,  a  mighty  miracle;  and  he  is  the  wise 
man  who  can  work  with  a  faith  that  demands  no 
guarantee,  though  he  feels  that  he  is  passing  over 
fathomless  depths.  To  be  sustained  is  enough; 
and  the  courage  of  the  natural  man  sustains  him. 
It  was  to  such  influences,  such  healing,  such  assur- 
ance of  security,  that  David  surrendered  himself 
through  those  wondrous  days  out-of-doors,  sweat- 
ing over  his  labor,  too  weary  to  take  close  heed  of 
what  was  coming  to  pass,  his  very  soul  lying  fal- 
low and  being  made  ready  for  its  fruitage. 


XXVI 

THERE  was  never  such  another  wheat  harvest 
in  the  Elkhorn  valley  as  that  year,  and  never 
such  ardent  labor  as  in  its  gathering.  For  long 
days  together  the  air  rang  with  the  music  of  the 
reaper  and  the  thresher  and  the  lusty  joy  swelling 
in  the  voices  of  the  harvesters,  while  each  day, 
from  early  dawn  to  latest  dusk,  the  laden  wagons 
crept  in  from  the  fields,  until  every  empty  space 
within  the  vast  barns  was  choked,  glutted  with 
wealth.  There  is  no  satisfaction  like  to  that  in 
its  profundity  —  the  satisfaction  of  clear  reward 
following  close  upon  the  earning;  a  satisfaction 
old  as  husbandry,  yet  new  with  each  returning 
year. 

One  evening,  when  the  harvest  was  over,  David 
sat  with  his  mother  and  Uncle  Billy  on  the  grass 
under  the  elms  in  the  door-yard.  He  was  utterly 
weary,  as  were  they,  and  their  speech  was  fitful, 
intermittent,  but  full  of  placid  content. 

After  a  time  the  mother  arose,  passing  towards 
the  house,  but  pausing  to  lay  her  hand  upon  her 
son's  head. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  she  said,  quietly,  "it's  been  a 
good  time,  hasn't  it?     I'm  very  thankful,  David." 

295 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

He  caught  her  hand,  holding  it  fast,  touching  it 
with  his  lips. 

"  Yes,  mother.  I'm  thankful,  too.  If  corn  turns 
out  as  well  as  wheat,  we  sha'n't  have  to  worry 
any  more  for  years." 

"  If!"  Uncle  Billy  sniffed,  disdainfully.  "  What 
business  you  got  sayin'  '  if '  ?  You  if-ers  give  me 
a  pain!  If  you'll  just  quit  your  if -in'  an'  stick  to 
your  cultivator  for  a  spell,  corn  '11  turn  out  all 
right." 

"Now,  Billy!"  Mrs.  Boughton  interposed,  gen- 
tly. "  Who's  done  better  than  David  with  wheat 
around  here?"  She  stood  for  a  moment,  looking 
around  upon  the  beloved  landscape,  softened  and 
glorified  by  the  summer  moonlight.  "  I  happened 
on  a  little  scrap  of  poetry  the  other  day,"  she  said, 
presently,  "and  it  made  me  feel  almost  guilty  for 
ever  having  been  fretted  or  grieved  over  any- 
thing, all  my  life.  '  Earth  gives  us  so  much,  and 
asks  so  little  from  us  at  the  last,'  it  said.  That's 
true,  too,  my  son."  With  slow  step  she  passed 
within  the  house,  and  they  heard  her  humming  a 
little  melody  of  happiness. 

"Yes,  by  God,  it's  true!"  Uncle  Billy  muttered. 
Then:  "Dave,  don't  you  mind  what  the  old  man 
said  a  bit  ago.  'Mighty!  I'm  proud  of  you; 
that's  what  I  am.  You're  a— you're  a  fanner! 
But  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  let  on  before  her;  she's  like 
to  spoil  you  as  it  is,  if  I  don't  look  out." 

In  his  own  room,  a  half-hour  later,  David  sat  by 
the  window,  gazing  out  across  his  fields,  listening 

296 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

to  the  intricate  chorus  of  sounds  of  the  summer 
night.  The  thrilling  voices  spoke  to  him  with 
new  meaning;  or  perhaps  the  meaning  was  old, 
and  only  his  understanding  was  new.  That  is  one 
of  Nature's  habits — never  to  grow  petulant,  but 
patiently  to  iterate  and  reiterate  her  simple  truths 
until  by-and-by  we  comprehend.  "  Life  for  life's 
dear  sake"  chanted  the  chorus  —  crickets  and 
whippoorwills,  air  and  stirring  leaves,  and  num- 
berless other  voices,  sweetly  familiar  yet  wholly 
nameless  and  unplaced ;  and,  as  he  heard,  mind  and 
heart  were  suffused  with  tenderness  and  strong 
affection.  Ambition  for  a  better  place  than 
this!  His  tired  senses  could  not  hold  firmly  to 
the  thought ;  unsubstantially  it  slipped  from  their 
grasp. 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  with  an  odd  commingling  of 
sadness  and  content,  "  I  guess  this  is  where  I  be- 
long." 

He  arose  and  lighted  his  little  bedroom  lamp; 
then  from  a  bureau  drawer  he  brought  forth  the 
letter  which  Margaret  had  written  him  in  the  early 
spring,  following  Dan's  death.  He  had  read  and 
reread  it  many  times,  until  it  was  worn  at  the  folds. 
He  read  it  again  now,  slowly,  with  close  attention 
to  its  every  word ;  and  yet  again,  from  beginning 
to  end,  while  a  cloud  of  memories  floated  between 
his  eyes  and  the  sheet  —  memories  of  thoughts 
once  hardy  and  brave,  but  now  grown  strangely 
remote,  almost  spectrally  dim.  He  returned  the 
letter  to  its  envelope  and  held  it  above  the  flame 

297 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

of  his  lamp,  watching  it  blacken  and  turn  crisply- 
back  at  the  edges,  and  then  break  into  yellow 
flame,  to  fall  at  last  in  feathery  ashes  to  the  floor. 
He  set  his  foot  upon  the  fluffy  heap;  and  in  that 
moment  he  made  complete  renunciation. 

A  month  later,  when  the  work  with  the  corn 
was  done  and  there  came  a  brief  intermission  be- 
fore the  harvest,  he  received  a  letter  from  Wat- 
son— a  hasty  pen-scrawl,  written  in  big,  bold  lines. 
It  ran: 

"  Dear  Boughton, — I  want  to  see  you.  I  have  held 
back  from,  writing  until  matters  were  cleared  up  some- 
what. Now  I  can  talk  to  you.  I  want  a  short  rest,  too. 
I  should  like  to  go  fishing  for  a  couple  of  days,  if  you 
can  go  with  me.  I  hope  you  are  not  too  much  occupied. 
Let  me  know.     I  must  see  you  soon. 

"  Paul  Watson." 

Two  days  afterwards  David  met  Watson  at  the 
Waterloo  station.  He  had  prepared  himself  to 
see  a  change  in  the  man.  As  he  walked  the  little 
platform,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  train,  he  al- 
most dreaded  its  coming  and  the  pain  which  the 
meeting  must  bring  to  both  of  them.  What  could 
there  be  to  say,  he  wondered,  that  would  not  bet- 
ter be  left  unsaid?  He  felt  a  strong  repugnance 
to  being  forcibly  reminded  again  of  Watson's  sor- 
row, seeing  the  visible  signs  of  what  must  have 
been  visited  upon  him  in  the  long  months  of  trial ; 
and  for  himself,  he  felt  that  to  go  back  over  the 
past,  now  that  he  had  so  effectually  severed  it 
from  the  present,  would  be  but  to  galvanize  the 

298 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

dead  into  a  feeble,  brief  semblance  of  life — a  mock- 
ery and  a  torture.  As  he  considered  it,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  let  the  dead  lie ;  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, when  the  train  came  rumbling  and  hissing 
to  a  stop,  and  the  meeting  was  imminent,  he  would 
have  averted  it  if  he  could.  But  in  another  mo- 
ment Watson  was  coming  towards  him  along  the 
platform,  and  his  fears  were  dispelled  by  sharp  sur- 
prise. 

This  was  not  the  man  who  had  haunted  his 
memory  and  imagination ;  it  was  not  the  man  he 
had  ever  known.  The  body  was  the  same,  in  its 
gigantic  outline  and  mass;  and  the  face,  in  the 
heavy,  strong  mould  of  the  features ;  but  both  were 
transformed,  transfigured.  The  powerful  shoul- 
ders were  lifted  and  squared;  the  old  downward 
droop  and  grim  restraint  of  the  lips  were  gone,  and 
the  dark  depths  of  the  eyes  were  glowing  with  the 
fires  of  spiritual  virility. 

The  big  hand  closed  upon  David's  with  a  grip 
of  iron,  and  the  big  voice  rang  out  in  a  laugh  that 
was  like  the  booming  of  a  bass  bell. 

"Boughton!  Lord,  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you! 
How  are  you,  anyway?  Brown  as  a  Greaser! 
But  tell  me,  anyway,  that  you're  well.  I  cer- 
tainly am  glad  to  see  you,  youngster." 

He  had  linked  his  arm  through  David's  and 
was  drawing  him  away  from  the  gaping  crowd  of 
station  loafers.  Once  apart  from  them,  he  stood 
confronting  David,  laughing  with  boyish  delight 
at  the  wonder  he  saw  in  the  young  face. 

299 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

"  It's  too  good  to  keep !"  he  cried.  "  I  came  out 
on  purpose  to  tell  you,  and  the  sooner  the  better. 
Boughton,  I've  found  my  Eurydice.  I've  been 
through  hell  and  back  to  get  her;  but  I've  got  her 
at  last.     Do  you  understand?" 

In  the  full  flood  of  his  amazement  and  strong 
emotion,  David  could  not  answer  save  by  putting 
out  his  hand  again.  Watson  caught  it  fiercely  in 
both  his  own,  pressing  it  until  the  very  bones 
ached. 

"It's  true!"  he  cried.  "Thank  God,  it's  true. 
I'm  as  sure  of  her  as  I  am  of  the  sun  up  yonder. 
Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell  you!  Why,  I've  jumped 
clean  back  to  the  days  of  my  youth,  at  one  jump — 
jumped  clean  over  every  doubt  I  ever  had  in  the 
world,  and  fallen  in  love  with  my  wife  all  over 
again.  And  she  loves  me.  I  know  it.  I've  got 
such  certainty  as  belongs  to  only  a  mighty  few  ex- 
periences in  this  life.  Oh,  come,  come.'"  he  broke 
off ;  "  this  won't  do.  Where's  your  wagon?  Let's 
get  started.  I  want  to  get  as  far  away  as  I  pos- 
sibly can  from  a  town,  for  this  one  day,  where  I 
can  have  you  to  myself  and  talk  to  you.  I've  got 
to  tell  you  the  whole  story,  from  the  beginning." 

On  the  drive  northward  through  the  beautiful 
valley,  with  the  morning  sky  over  them  and  the 
south  wind  warming  their  blood,  he  was  like  a 
happy  boy — yes,  better  still,  he  was  a  happy 
man. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  I've  been  through,"  he 
said.     "  You  don't  need  to  know  that ;  it  wouldn't 

300 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

be  good  for  you  to  know.  I  didn't  try  to  find 
out  from  anybody  else  whether  she  was  telling 
me  the  truth;  I  just  waited  to  see  for  myself. 
And  I  saw  —  absolutely.  I  don't  want  to  go 
through  it  again — those  dreadful  months ;  but  it's 
been  worth  all  it  cost.  She's  proved  herself;  ev- 
ery word  of  what  she  told  me  was  true.  She  loves 
me,  boy,  and  she's  loved  me  all  the  time.  It's 
pretty  late  in  life ;  but  do  you  know  what  I'm  go- 
ing to  do?  I've  resigned  my  seat  and  sold  out 
my  practice,  and  we're  going  to  start  fresh.  I'm 
done  with  law  and  politics — damn  the  whole  busi- 
ness !  I'm  going  to  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  that 
woman.  I'm  going  to  give  her  everything  I've 
been  withholding  from  her  a"l  these  terrible  years, 
and  we're  going  to  find  out  that  this  life  was  meant 
to  be  something  besides  an  illusion  and  a  hoodoo. 
I  wish  there  was  some  way  of  letting  you  know 
what  it  means  to  us;  but  you  can't  do  that,  and  I 
hope  you  may  never  find  out." 

Something  in  David's  face  sobered  him  sudden- 
ly, and  they  rode  on  for  a  time  in  silence. 

"  I've  thought  of  you,  too,  Boughton,"  the  man 
said,  presently.  "I  was  a  brute  that  day;  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  believe  the  strain  was  driving 
me' insane.  I  said  unjust  things  to  you.  But  I 
honestly  tried  to  make  it  right,  after  I'd  had  a 
little  time  to  think.  I  talked  to  Margy  about  you, 
and  she  told  me  everything  that  had  gone  between 
you.  I'm  sorry,  genuinely  sorry.  I  hope  you 
can  believe  that.     But  at  the  same  time  I  can't 

301 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

help  thinking  that  the  girl  knew  best.  I  was 
largely  to  blame  for  it,  on  account  of  the  way  I'd 
influenced  her  during  those  years.  But  it's  a 
thing  that  can't  be  helped  now.  It's  a  mighty 
big  question.  I  didn't  argue  with  her,  because 
I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  do  that ;  I  felt  that  I'd 
rather  trust  her  instincts  than  my  own,  after 
the  way  mine  had  led  me  astray.  I  guess  she 
was  right  in  what  she  said  to  you.  Tell  me  this, 
boy:  have  you  heard  from  her  since?" 

"No,"  David  answered,  in  listless  calm. 

"  You  haven't  heard  from  her  direct?  She  went 
away  when  her  mother  came  back — back  to  friends 
in  New  York.  She  couldn't  stay.  I  guess  that 
was  best,  too.  But  there's  something  more.  You 
don't  know  that  she's  to  be  married?" 

"  Married!"  For  a  moment  earth  and  sky  were 
fused  together  in  a  whirling  blur,  and  the  young 
heart  leaped  and  pounded;  but  that  passed,  and 
the  green  hills  lay  warm  and  tranquil  in  the  sun- 
light as  before. 

"It's  better  so,"  Watson  said,  gently.  "  You'll 
appreciate  it  by-and-by.  I  think  she's  found  the 
right  man.  He's  in  the  thick  of  things  back  there, 
and  has  interests  all  over  the  world.  He's  been  in 
Congress  once,  and  he's  likely  to  go  again,  if  he 
doesn't  conclude  to  live  abroad.  He's  going  to 
Syria  this  winter,  to  explore  some  of  the  ancient 
towns,  and  she'll  probably  go  with  him.  He's  a 
thoroughly  worthy  fellow,  and  I  think  he's  just 
the  kind  of  a  husband  she  needs.     I  hope  so."     He 

302 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

looked  long  and  earnestly  into  David's  grave, 
frank  face,  then  laid  his  arm  affectionately  across 
the  sturdy  shoulders.  "  If  I  were  left  to  choose  a 
son  from  among  all  the  men  I've  known,  it  would 
be  you,"  he  said,  with  deep  feeling;  "but  I  guess 
it's  best  as  it  is." 

Five  miles  above  Waterloo  they  halted  in  a  nook 
of  the  unreclaimed  wilderness,  where  the  narrow 
belt  of  valley  woodland  crept  down  close  to  the 
water's  edge.  It  was  far  from  any  human  dwell- 
ing, and  the  whole  world  seemed  from  that  spot 
to  be  given  over  to  the  simple,  primal  light-heart- 
edness  of  wild,  free  life.  As  they  turned  from  the 
travelled  road  into  the  thicket,  a  gray  rabbit  ran 
lightly  out  of  their  way,  a  pair  of  red  squirrels 
scolded  from  the  near  branches,  and  the  water 
called  invitation  from  its  hiding  beyond  the  trees. 

David  loosed  the  horses  and  picketed  them  in 
the  thick  sward  beside  the  road.  When  that  was 
done,  and  he  walked  down  to  the  river,  he  found 
Watson  poised  upon  a  flat  rock  in  the  stream,  rod 
in  hand,  his  face  beaming  with  satisfaction.  David 
made  his  own  tackle  ready,  and  gave  himself  to 
the  sport.  But  Watson's  impetuous  zeal  did  not 
long  endure.  After  a  catch  or  two  he  put  by  his 
rod  and  stretched  himself  at  his  length  upon  the 
warm  sand,  spreading  his  arms  and  legs  to  the 
utmost,  his  face  upturned  to  the  sky. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  day  of  leisure,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  be  obliged  to  fish,  just  because 
I  came  fishing."     He  clutched  at  the  sand,  gath- 

3°3 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

ering  it  up  in  great  handfuls,  letting  it  escape  from 
his  ringers,  sighing  in  sheer  content.  "Leisure!" 
he  said  again.  "We  Western  folk  don't  know 
what  that  is;  we  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with 
it  if  it  was  ours.  We  take  a  half -day  off,  once  or 
twice  a  year,  and  call  that  leisure;  but  it  isn't. 
We're  so  excited  by  the  fear  of  losing  a  minute  of  it 
that  we  lose  it  all.  I'm  just  going  to  lie  right  here 
until  lunch-time;  and  that's  two  full  hours." 

Presently,  in  the  fulness  of  his  relaxation,  he 
dozed,  and  David  was  left  alone  with  river,  trees, 
and  sky — those  and  his  thoughts.  Effort  to  think 
there  was  none ;  the  time  for  that  seemed  passed. 
Nor  was  there  strong  emotion  of  any  kind.  It 
was  as  though  will  had  halted  and  stood  by, 
watching  idly  while  memory  marshalled  its  hosts 
and  led  them  in  procession.  He  did  not  realize 
it;  but  in  those  few  quiet  hours  was  the  crisis  of 
his  life.  Had  he  been  called  upon  to  give  name 
to  an  active  desire  for  the  future,  he  could  not  have 
done  it ;  he  was  only  drifting,  drifting ;  but  drifting 
surely,  upon  the  bosom  of  currents  he  did  not  even 
suspect,  back  to  a  secure  anchorage  upon  firm 
ground  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  existence.  Ev- 
ery voice,  every  wondrous  effect  of  light  and  shade, 
every  impulse  that  was  borne  to  his  quiescent 
senses,  came  with  a  touch  of  healing.  Iridescent 
dragon-flies  skimmed  along  the  banks,  poising 
now  and  again  with  outspread  wings  upon  his  rod ; 
bank-swallows  flashed  by,  back  and  forth,  close 
against  the  water,  touching  it  lightly  with  wing  or 

3°4 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

breast ;  sometimes  a  silvery  fish  flung  itself  free  of 
the  stream,  and  snake  or  tortoise  protruded  cau- 
tious head;  the  air  was  murmurous  with  life;  not 
one  false  note  among  them  all.  Under  all  beat 
the  mighty  heart  of  the  world — heart  that  never 
betrayed  true  lover.  Once  the  face  of  Margaret 
rose  before  the  man's  eyes,  floating  in  the  shad- 
ows of  the  dark  water ;  but  the  current  was  swift 
and  strong,  and  the  beautiful  image  drifted,  drift- 
ed farther  and  farther  away,  and  was  lost  to  his 
sight.  Regret,  sorrow,  pain — if  he  felt  these,  even 
in  the  lightest  degree,  they  did  not  wound,  but 
blended  softly  into  his  mood  and  became  a  part  of 
its  balm. 

"  It  wasn't  mine,"  he  brooded.  "  If  it  had  been 
mine,  it  would  have  come  to  me."  Then  he  reeled 
up  his  line  and  stepped  from  stone  to  stone  tow- 
ards the  bank  where  Watson  lay  still  sleeping. 

They  made  a  hearty  luncheon,  taking  their  time 
to  it;  and  afterwards  they  returned  for  a  time  to 
their  sport.  But  it  did  not  hold  them,  and  for 
most  of  the  afternoon  they  gave  themselves  to  en- 
joyment of  the  slow,  calm  movement  of  the  day's 
life  about  them ;  talking  when  there  was  anything 
to  say,  but  not  grudging  the  long  intervals  wherein 
each  retired  within  himself  to  meditate  upon  the 
mystery  whose  solution  was  unfolding.  Twilight 
deepened  around  them  before  they  thought  of 
home,  and  the  valley  swam  with  mellow  shadows 
— clear,  ethereal  gold,  slipping  into  royal  purple, 
laced  with  other  hues  too  subtle  to  be  named ;  and 

305 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

then,  against  the  breast  of  the  eastern  sky,  shone 
one  brilliant  star,  like  a  decoration  won  from  an 
approving  God. 

"This  hour  seems  like  Nature's  holy  of  holies," 
Watson  said,  "and  not  many  of  us  are  fit  to  be 
admitted  to  it.  But  I'm  fit,  as  I  never  was  be- 
fore." And  then  again,  when  they  were  starting 
back  along  the  quiet  country  road:  "Oh,  it's  a 
good  world !"  he  cried  —  "a  good  world,  and  lots 
of  chances  for  good.  I  guess  the  Almighty  knows 
His  business,  Boughton." 


XXVII 

AGAIN  it  was  mid-October;  and  again  David 
l\  set  his  plough  into  the  black  loam  of  the 
"hill  eighty."  It  was  still  early  morning,  and 
seasonal  mists  lay  thick  in  the  deep  hollows  tow- 
ards the  river,  swirling  in  gray  eddies  as  the  wind 
touched  them.  Here  and  there  over  the  land- 
scape flitted  the  shadows  of  passing  clouds;  but 
most  of  the  land  lay  bathed  in  warm  light — fair 
cloth  of  gold,  embroidered  with  infinite  wealth  of 
color  by  a  master  hand. 

David  paused  for  a  brief  time  before  beginning 
his  task,  looking  around. 

"Is  it  a  whole  year?"  he  said,  aloud.  "I 
thought  that  was  going  to  be  the  last  time!" 

He  set  the  ploughshare  into  the  rich  soil,  gath- 
ered the  reins  into  one  firm  hand,  chirruping  to 
the  horses,  and  striking  into  the  long,  swinging 
gait  that  was  his  in  the  fields.  He  heard  the  blade 
rip  its  way  deep  into  the  mould,  and  saw  the  long, 
outward  roll  of  the  upturning  furrow;  he  caught 
a  deep  breath  of  its  humid  odor,  and  the  wind 
touched  his  cheek  like  the  kiss  of  a  friend.  At 
the  far  fence  he  turned  his  team  and  stood 
looking  down  the  slope  of  the  hill  to  where  his 

307 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

home  lay  nestling  close  against  the  breast  of  its 
mother  -  earth,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  great 
happiness. 

"Thank God,  it  wasn't  the  last  time!"  he  cried, 
softly.  Then,  as  busy  memory  leaped  backward 
again,  he  laughed  aloud,  in  the  irrepressible  fash- 
ion he  had  been  so  near  to  forgetting. 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  sort  of  final,  supreme  vic- 
tory— an  'ultimate  moment,'  I  told  Joe.  I  won- 
der if  this  might  be  it,  after  all?" 

A  blue  jay  flitted  down  from  the  air  and  perched 
upon  the  fence  near  by,  cocking  its  saucy  head, 
appreciative  of  the  newly  turned  earth;  then 
swooped  closer — a  jet  of  vivid  flame — picked  a  fat 
worm  from  the  furrow,  swallowed  it,  and  flashed 
into  the  air  again,  screaming  with  lusty  delight. 
David's  laugh  rang  large  and  true. 

"That  was  an  ultimate  moment,  sure  enough!" 
he  said,  gayly.  "  Oh,  you're  a  wise  old  bird.  But 
why  couldn't  you  have  told  me  that  a  year  ago? 
It  would  have  saved  me  a  heap  of  trouble." 

He  bent  to  his  work  then  with  a  firmer  purpose, 
and  the  willing  horses  plodded  steadily  back  and 
forth,  across  and  across,  leaving  behind  a  trail  of 
patient  industry.  It  was  joyful  work,  and  his 
hardy  muscles  thrilled ;  but  hard  work,  too,  that 
brought  the  sweat  dripping  upon  his  forehead 
and  cheeks.  A  young  cotton  wood- tree  stood  in 
one  corner  of  the  field,  close  to  the  lane,  and  he 
promised  himself  that  when  he  reached  it  he  would 
rest  for  a  little  while  in  its  shade.     As  he  drew 

308 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

near,  his  alert  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue- 
clad  figure  passing  quickly  through  the  lane  tow- 
ards the  spot;  and  there,  with  his  head  bared  to 
the  soft  wind,  he  encountered  Ruth. 

She  nodded  blithely,  and  with  a  bright  word 
would  have  passed  on,  but  he  called  to  her  to 
stop. 

"People  mustn't  stop  on  errands,"  she  said. 
"I'm  taking  this  basket  of  grapes  to  your  mother." 

"  It  isn't  a  case  of  life  and  death,"  he  pleaded. 
"Please,  Ruth,  just  a  minute."  And  without 
further  demur  she  turned  aside,  standing  near  him, 
with  only  the  fence  between — not  a  great  barrier. 
His  eyes  met  hers  and  held  to  them,  drinking  deep 
of  their  sweet  serenity.  They  were  beautiful  eyes 
— he  had  always  known  that ;  blue  as  the  mid-day 
sky ;  but  more  than  that  he  saw  now.  They  were 
true  as  the  sky,  too — as  steadfast,  and  as  full  of 
heavenly  meaning.  She  was  a  simple-hearted 
girl,  with  no  power  but  that  of  her  simplicity ;  yet 
as  he  gazed  he  knew,  what  is  known  only  to  the 
wise,  that  simplicity  is  the  master-key  to  all  true 
power.  Perfect  purity  was  hers,  too,  and  the 
strength  that  comes  from  purity,  and  the  faith 
that  comes  from  strength.  She  had  never  learned 
to  cherish  lightest  doubt  of  life  or  of  life's  utility. 

"Oh,  Ruth,"  he  said,  feeling  his  own  un worthi- 
ness, "it  has  been  a  strange  year.  It  was  a  year 
ago  yesterday  that  I  went  away;  do  you  remem- 
ber? And  here  I  am  back  again.  I've  wandered 
a  long  way  since  then — oh,  you  don't  know  how 

3°9 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

far— around  and  around,  like  a  man  that's  lost  in 
the  woods ;  only  it  was  worse  than  that.  But  I've 
been  led  back  to  my  place,  and  I'm  thankful,  more 
thankful  than  I  can  tell  you  if  I  try  for  a  lifetime." 
He  took  her  hand  in  his,  holding  it  firmly,  quiet- 
ing its  shyness;  then  bent  and  touched  it  rever- 
ently with  his  lips.  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you  the 
whole  story,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  going  to  be  easy 
for  me,  nor  for  you;  but  it  must  be  told.  I've 
done  no  wrong,  Ruth;  but  I've  been  a  sorry,  mis- 
erable fool.  That's  what  makes  it  so  hard — any 
man  would  rather  own  up  to  wickedness  than  to 
being  a  fool.  But  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  anyway, 
every  word,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  you  here  until 
I  make  you  understand." 

And  then  he  told  his  story,  like  the  honest  man 
he  was,  from  beginning  to  end,  making  no  trial  to 
shield  himself  nor  to  soften  the  hurt  it  must  cause 
her.  That  must  come  afterwards,  when  she  knew. 
She  listened  in  complete  silence  until  the  last  word, 
standing  in  her  simple  attitude  before  him,  look- 
ing at  him  now  and  then,  but  giving  no  token  of 
her  depth  of  feeling.  When  he  had  finished  she 
was  very  pale,  but  she  only  said,  quietly : 
"  I  must  go  on  now.  Mother  will  want  me." 
But  he  would  not  have  it  so.  "Ruth,  Ruth!" 
he  cried.  "  Don't  go  that  way — don't !  You  must 
listen  to  one  word  more,  first.  Do  you  know  why 
I've  told  you  this?  I  know  you  do!  I  have  no 
right  to  say  it  yet,  but  I'm  going  to  have  the  right 
— I'm  going  to  make  you  give  it  to  me.     I'll  make 

310 


THE    ULTIMATE    MOMENT 

you  know  how  I  care  for  you,  better  than — 
oh,  I  can't  say  it!  Look  at  me,  Ruth,  just  once, 
and  then  I'll  let  you  go." 

She  did  as  he  bade  her;  then,  with  a  smothered 
cry,  a  rush  of  burning  color  upon  her  cheeks,  she 
started  from  him,  frightened  by  her  own  temerity. 
He  leaped  the  fence  at  a  bound  and  stood  beside 
her,  catching  her  hand  in  his,  pressing  it  to  his 
breast. 

"Ruth,  you  must  give  me  the  right  to  show 
you  how  much  I  do  care.  I  don't  ask  anything 
else  now;  but  you  must  give  me  that."  He  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  bent  head,  lifting  it,  compelling 
her  eyes  to  meet  his  again.  It  was  only  for  an  in- 
stant, but  he  saw  enough. 

He  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  hurried  down 
the  lane ;  and,  when  she  was  gone,  still  he  stood  in 
his  place  for  a  long  time. 

"  God  make  me  fit  for  her !"  he  whispered.  Then, 
with  slow  step,  he  went  back  across  the  field  to 
his  plough. 


THE    END 


The   ultimate  moment 


L72- 
ul 


(V)51ol53 


SUPPLIED  BV      ____ 

THE  SEVEN  BOOKHUNTERS 

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